


Iceman & The Coffee Boy

by Soledad



Series: Beautiful Minds [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: Alternate Universe, Civil servants rule the world, F/M, Family Secrets, M/M, Parentlock - sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 23:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ifan Jones dies, life changes forever for his son, Ianto. The revealing of a family secret drives him away from Cardiff, to the anonimity of London. Little does he know that his journey has just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Letters of Ifan Jones, Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in the same alternate universe as “Beautiful Minds” and is, in fact, both a complementary story and some sort of sequel to it, designed to illuminate more of the background of the series. In this AU, there is no Doctor and no aliens, UNIT is a military branch of the Secret Service and the Torchwood Institute is a private research lab owned by the Holmes family. Basically, the Whoniverse characters have been inserted into the settings of Sherlock BBC, in fairly different roles. Hopefully, they still remain more or less in character. *g*
> 
> As the title reveals, this story mainly focuses on Ianto Jones the family secret he discovers and how it changes his life.

**CHAPTER 01 – THE LETTERS OF IFAN JONES, PART 1**

Ianto came home from the small coffee shop where he’d worked for the last two years in high spirits. As he always went directly to work after school, he’d redirected his mail to the shop about a year ago, and that was where he finally got the letter from the London School of Economics: his appliacation had been accepted! He could leave this grey, rainy and depressing Cardiff behind and go to London!

London! He’d only been there a few times – ever since Tad had lost his small business due to the recession and been forced to eke out a meagre living as a cashier at Debenham’s, they couldn’t afford anything beyond the bare necessities. But the few memories he had of the huge city, pulsing with light and life and energy, had haunted his dreams ever since.

London was the place where he’d always wanted to live.  
  
He knew it wouldn’t be easy. But he was used to make do with what little he had. One of those things was an uncanny knack for making excellent coffee and the instinctive knowledge how any given customer would like his or hers. That particular skill had made the _Arabian Nights Café_ such a frequented spot of students; without him, it probably would already have gone bankrupt years ago.

He was fairly certain that he’d find a job as a barista in one of London’s countless coffee shops, too. And once the customers had tasted _his_ coffee, they wouldn’t want to go anywhere else. That way, he’d be able to pay some of his study fees and afford a modest little bed-sit, even in London.

He glanced at his watch. His shift had been over for twenty minutes already. It was time to go home.

“I’m finished, Mr. Llewellyn!” he called out to the elderly shop owner who was discussing the latest rugby match with some of his regular customers, while handing over the black apron to his counterpart from the evening shift. “Off and out!”

“That’s fine, Ianto,” the old man waved back at him, smiling with almost paternal pride. “Give your Mam my regards.”

Mr. Llewellyn was a sweet old soul and he liked Ianto as if he’d been his own son. Well, grandson, more likely. It wasn’t his fault that his memory no longer served him well. Otherwise he’d have remembered that Madelyn Jones had died seven years ago, after years upon years of increasingly worsening depressions, because of which she’d had to spend her last years in _Providence Park_.

But today not even the memory of his Mam’s slow descent into complete mental darkness could cloud Ianto’s joy. He was going to London, to study economics and EDP. He’d just reached his temporary goal on a carefully planned-out career, thanks to his hard work at school, and nothing and no-one could keep him from leaving.

Not even his Tad, although he might try.

Ever since losing his wife _and_ his tailor’s shop within mere six months, Ifan Jones had become moody and occasionally aggressive. Mostly because he often sought comfort in the bottom of a bottle. Ianto _had_ talked to him about his plans to go to London to university a couple of times, but all he’d got as an answer was a noncommittal _hmmm_. As if his Tad had tried to avoid the confrontation about a topic he knew he couldn’t win.

Well, today the confrontation wouldn’t be avoided any longer.

After a great deal of consideration – during which he’d played off half a dozen possible scenarios in his mind – Ianto decided on the direct approach. He unlocked the front door with his own key and walked directly into the living room, grinning from ear to ear, waving with the official letter.

“Look at this, Tad!” he exclaimed. “I got accepted!”

But it wasn’t Ifan Jones who rose from the battered sofa in front of the unexpectedly silent telly. It was his daughter, Rhiannon – known as Mrs Davies for the last five years – her eyes red and puffy and her cheeks blotched from crying hard for a lengthy time.

“Ianto,” she sobbed. “Oh, Ianto, you don’t even know yet!”

“Know _what_?” Ianto felt a strange coldness encroach upon his heart. “Rhi, what happened?”

She allowed him to take her in his arms; she was shaking like a leaf, and seeing her who’d always been so strong and resilient, like a rock in the storm – _his_ rock in the storm since their early childhood – shocked him to the bone.

“Rhi, talk to me!” he insisted. “Has anything happened to Johnny? Or to Daffy? Are they all right? Are _you_ all right?”

She nodded repeatedly, but it took her endless moments until she could actually form any words.

“They’re okay. We’re okay. But Tad… Tad’s had an accident.”

“How bad?” Ianto asked automatically, although seeing the state in which she was he already expected the worst.

“B-bad…” she whispered, unable to continue.

Ianto swallowed hard.

“Is he…” he couldn’t bear to say _dead_ , but Rhi understood anyway and nodded miserably, starting to cry again.

Holding his sobbing sister while she practically dissolved in tears, the only thing Ianto could think of was: _Now we’re truly orphaned._

The official letter from the university lay on the coffee table, completely forgotten.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto spent the night in Rhiannon and Johnny’s flat. It was too small, even for a young couple with only one kid, but he couldn’t make himself stay in his childhood home. There were too many memories; few of them pleasant.

On the next day, he went to the police station to learn more about the circumstances of his Tad’s accident, although he did have his suspicions concerning the reason. He got directed to a friendly young constable by the name of Andy Davidson who was apparently working on the case.

PC Andy, as the others called him, was a lanky bloke with curly blond hair and guileless blue eyes and, and he seemed genuinely compassionate. Which was probably the reason why he got to deal with the upset relatives.

“I’m really sorry, mate,” he said with disarming honesty. “But it seems the accident was entirely your Tad’s fault. It appears that he got quite drunk in the morning, and then walked right in front of the bus. The driver tried to floor the brake – some of the passengers even sustained light injuries from it – but it was too late.”

Ianto nodded, sadly but unsurprised.

“I always feared something like this would happen,” he admitted. “He drank a lot ever since our Mam died.”

“When was that?” PC Andy asked.

“Seven years ago,” Ianto replied. “Things were getting gradually worse as time went by.”

The young policeman sighed; he probably heard stories like that every other day.

“That’s a long time, hanging onto the bottle,” he said. “All right then, if you agree to the closing of the case we could send the driver and the other witnesses home.”

“I do,” Ianto said. “No need to go on bothering those poor people – _if_ you are sure it was Tad’s fault.”

“We are,” PC Andy sounded vaguely apologetic. “All forensic evidence points in that direction.”

“Then we better get on it,” Ianto said with a sigh. “The sooner you can close the investigation, the sooner can I bury my Tad and order his affairs… such as they are.”

“Fine with me,” PC Andy pulled some forms out of his desk drawer and laid them in front of Ianto. “Please read them carefully and sign them on the dotted line if you agree with the contents.”

“Sure,” Ianto read the forms from top to bottom as required, then took out his fountain pen and signed them. “What else am I supposed to do?”

“Nothing,” the young policeman took back the forms and handed them to a female PC who was collecting empty coffee mugs nearby. “Gwen, love, can you take these to the Desk Sergeant?”

The dark-haired Welshwoman seemed mildly insulted, as if such tasks were beneath her dignity, although Ianto couldn’t imagine why. She was clearly a rookie, trying to learn the job from her more experienced colleagues, although she appeared in her late twenties already. She managed to make a vaguely dishevelled impression, even wearing a police uniform, which was quite a feat.

Slamming down the tray with the empty mugs unceremoniously onto the nearest empty surface, she snatched the forms from Andy’s hand and glanced into them.

“What, you’re still on the drunkard victim case?” she twisted her mouth in dismay, revealing a wide gap between her front teeth. “I thought it was clearly his fault.”

“It was,” PC Andy replied patiently. “Which is why we’re closing the investigation. Especially as his next of kin is in agreement, as you can see.”

“Much ado for a useless drinker,” the rookie commented off-handedly.

Ianto was a patient soul – most of the time anyway – but at the moment he needed all his self-discipline _not_ to throttle the stupid, heartless bitch with on the spot.

“That useless drinker,” he said through gritted teeth, “had a name. He was called Ifan Jones. He was a master tailor, and he was a good husband and a doting father. That he had a bit of misfortune in his life wasn’t his fault. So I’d appreciate if you spoke of my father with a little more respect, miss, unless you want me to hand in a complaint to Detective Inspector Henderson.”

The rookie stared at him with open-mouthed shock, apparently not having expected him to know the name of her boss. Before she could react, though, PC Andy interfered.

“The Desk Sergeant needs to countersign the forms, so that we actually _can_ close this investigation, Gwen. So, if you don’t mind…”

The rookie shot Ianto a dirty look but left nonetheless. PC Andy turned to Ianto in apology.

“I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Jones. She didn’t really mean it; she never does. She’s just new to the job and needs to learn a great deal yet. Got a bit spoiled by her parents, I guess.”

“That’s an explanation, not an excuse,” Ianto replied dryly. “It doesn’t matter, though, PC Davidson. Hopefully this was the first and last time I’ve run into her.”

The young policeman grinned. “Don’t be so sure about that. Cardiff can be a surprisingly small town sometimes.”

“It’s fortunate then that I don’t intend to stay in Cardiff much longer,” Ianto countered. “Good day, PC Davidson, and thank you for your help.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ifan Jones was buried a week later, in Newport, next to his late wife and his sister Bronwyn, who’d died almost twenty years earlier. The ceremony was short and simple and the mourners few in number; he’d moved to Cardiff at a fairly young age and there were few in Newport who’d still remember him. Basically, it was just the family and some of Johnny and Rhiannon’s friends.

Ianto didn’t have any friends close enough to care. Having lived with a habitual drinker from the age of twelve could do that to a kid.

He was somewhat surprised when he spotted PC Davidson in a little distance, though. He didn’t think the young constable would come to the funeral of every car accident victim on whose cases he worked. It was probably an effort to atone for his partner’s rudeness.

Whatever the reason, Ianto was grateful. No-one else had come to support _him_. Mr. Llewellyn might have, but he was too old and arthritic for such trips. Besides, he might not have understood whose funeral it was in the first place.

There was no death watch after the funeral. Their Mam had always despised the custom as barbaric and frankly, they didn’t have the money to waste on such a useless thing.

“What will happen with the house now?” Johnny Davies asked, eyeing the childhood home of his wife warily. “We don’t have the means to keep it.”

“You can, if you move in,” Ianto suggested. “Keeping the house wouldn’t cost more than the rent you’re paying for that sorry excuse of a two-bedroom-flat, and at least here you’d have the room for more kids, should you want any.”

“What about you?” Johnny asked. “This is your home, too.”

Ianto shook his head. “No; I’m done with this place. I’m going to London, as l planned. Starting a new life from the scratch.”

“Rhi’s gonna miss you, man,” Johnny said after a lengthy pause. “And so am I, frankly. Don’t become a stranger, you hear me?”

“You’re a good man, Johnny Davies, even if you’re a bit of a tosser sometimes,” Ianto answered with a faint smile. “Don’t worry; I’m not planning on burning all bridges behind me. I’ll keep in touch, I promise.”

“You haven’t changed your mind then?” Rhiannon asked, having caught the tail end of their conversation as she came into the living room. “You still gonna go to London?”

Ianto nodded. “That was all I ever wanted, Rhi. And it will be the best for everyone. Granted, this isn’t the best neighbourhood in Cardiff, but at least you’d be in your own; and Johnny is big and ugly enough to frighten away everyone who might get stupid ideas about you living here.”

They all smiled sadly at his lame attempt of joke, but both Rhi and Johnny knew that he was right. The old house would have been too big for him alone, even if he’d wanted to stay, which he didn’t. It had been too big for him and his Tad already, a depressing frame to Tad’s slow slide towards self-destruction. With a young family living within its walls, perhaps it would become a better place; and Johnny’s skills would help to return it to a much better state. Johnny had always liked to tinker around the house, paint the walls, make small repairs… that sort of thing. Now he wouldn’t have to worry about a displeased landlord who didn’t like when the tenants improved things. Now Johnny would be able to turn the house into an actual home.

“Make this place a home again,” Ianto said quietly. “A home for yourselves; and for me to return to, from time to time.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
With that, the agreement had been made, and the next couple of weeks were spent with dissolving Ifan Jones’s modest household, cleaning and repainting the entire house and moving Rhi and Johnny’s belongings there.

It was a lot of hard work, but it helped them deal with their grief; and when they were finally done, the simple little house looked like new. Even Ianto’s old room had been redecorated, despite his protests that it wasn’t necessary (not to mention a waste of money that they couldn’t afford), as he was leaving anyway. But Rhi was adamant about it.

“This is still your home, you daft sod,” she declared forcefully. “You took the pressure off us all these years, taking care of Tad as much as he let you; you’ve got the same claim here as we do – more than us, actually.”

Since that was, technically, true, Ianto stopped arguing. Besides, it would have been stupid to renovate the whole house, save _one_ single bedroom. Therefore they did it properly, and even had a very modest housewarming party for Rhi and Johnny’s friends and for the neighbours who were on a friendly basis with the Joneses.

Two days after the party Ianto was sitting in his old but much improved room, hunting for cheap bed-sits and possible jobs in London via the internet, when the phone rang. Being the only one currently at home, he jogged down to the living room to pick it up.

“Ianto Jones.”

“Barry Williams from _Cooper & Williams_,” the cultured voice of a presumably middle-aged man said; it was a voice that Ianto didn’t know. “Mr Jones, your father has engaged our firm to hand you over certain… documents in case of his death. We would like you to come to our office and collect them.”

“What kind of documents?” Ianto asked in surprise.

He _had_ heard of _Cooper & Williams_, of course. They were a small but respected law firm, with a seat in Swansea; yet they had an office in Cardiff, too. They usually dealt with the execution of wills and inheritance issues, so a call from them was quite unexpected. As far as Ianto knew there was nothing for him – or for Rhi – to inherit, save the house, which had been on their names already since they reached legal maturity.

“I’m afraid I don’t have the liberty to give you that piece of information on the phone,” Mr. Williams said apologetically. “But I’m working in our Cardiff office this week, so we’ll have the chance to discuss matters personally. “What time would be suitable for you?”

“I’m on a flexible schedule right now,” Ianto told him. “I can come as soon as you’ve got an opening on yours.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Williams said. “Would be Tuesday 11 am acceptable?”

“Sure,” Ianto replied. “Do I need to bring anything? Birth certificate? Ownership papers of the house?”

“Your ID would suffice,” the lawyer answered. “Just so that we know we’re handing over the documents to the right person. Good day, Mr. Jones.”

He hung up without any further explanation and Ianto stared at the beeping phone in bewilderment, wondering what _this_ was supposed to mean.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When Rhiannon got home, she was every bit as surprised and clueless as he was.

“I didn’t even know Tad had a will,” she said.

“Neither did I,” Ianto confessed. “It wouldn’t make any sense – he could barely keep the house between that poorly paid job of his... and the drinking. I don’t think that he could have left us anything – except perhaps a lot of debts.”

“Did he have debts?” Rhiannon asked, suddenly worried. She and Johnny weren’t particularly well off. Certainly not enough to pay off _any_ debts their Tad might have left to them.

Ianto shook his head.

“Not that I’d know of; and I was the one who saw that the bills got paid each month. He didn’t really care about such things in the last year or so.”

“What on Earth could this be about, then?” Rhiannon wondered.

Ianto shrugged. “We’ll see on Tuesday, I guess.”

But he, too, was more worried than he’d allow his sister to see. After all, it wasn’t impossible that their Tad _had_ made a lot of debts, without him knowing about it. He _had_ been a drinker, and drinkers easily lost control over their finances. Learning that there was a huge mortgage on the house would be more than just an unpleasant surprise. It would be a financial disaster for them all, now that Johnny and Rhi had quit their rented flat and moved in already.

Therefore it was with great anxiety when Ianto appeared at the Cardiff office of _Cooper & Williams_ on Tuesday morning, to learn what their Tad had done. _Probably_ done, he mentally corrected himself as he approached the desk of the pretty blonde receptionist – one Maggie Hopley, according to the name shield right in the front.

“Ianto Jones,” he introduced himself. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr Williams.”

She checked the timetable displayed on her desktop monitor and nodded.

“Certainly, Mr. Jones. Just a moment, please.”

She picked up the phone that must have been hotlined to the office of her boss because she didn’t need to push any bottoms.

“Mr Williams, sir, your eleven o’clock client is already here,” she listened to some instructions being given to her. “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

She put down the phone and rose.

“Please come with me, Mr Jones. Mr Williams has time for you right away.”

 _That_ was a pleasant surprise, as Ianto had expected to be made wait for a while (he wasn’t a wealthy client, after all, at least not that he’d know). He followed the pretty blonde into the lawyer’s office, which turned out nothing like those posh places one often saw in court shows on the telly. It was of moderate size, well-lit and functional – clearly a room where people worked long hours. The furniture a bit old-fashioned perhaps, but not pompous, and the equipment up-to-date, from the LCD desktop monitor through the newest model of high-speed printer down to the wireless phone.

Mr Williams himself was a middle-aged gentleman in a conservative three-piece suit – tailored, Ianto’s experienced eye noticed, but not grossly overpriced, meant to be comfortable rather than fancy –, with greying hair and gold-rimmed glasses. He had a spot of grey goatee in the middle of his chin, which Ianto usually found ridiculous, but it looked actually good on the lawyer. He appeared to be a competent and generally friendly person, yet one who took his job seriously.

When Ianto entered, Mr Williams rose from behind his desk to shake hands. His grip was short and firm, his skin pleasantly dry. Ianto hated to shake hands with people who had sweaty palms. It gave him goosebumps, and not in a good way.

“Thank you for coming at such a short notice, Mr Jones,” the lawyer said. “Please, have a seat,” then he turned to his receptionist. “Maggie, have Brian bring me the Ifan Jones file and make us some coffee, please. Then the two of you can have a break. Preferable outside the office.”

Now _that_ sounded a bit odd, but Maggie didn’t even blink, so it couldn’t have been such a rare occasion.

“Yes, sir,” she said and left, calling back over her shoulder. “Thank you, sir!”

“She’s a jewel, and usually very discreet,” Mr Williams told Ianto confidentially. “But in some cases, like yours, I prefer to be absolutely certain that we won’t be overheard. She and my lawyer-candidate have just returned from their honeymoon; they’ll gladly make the break a lengthy one.”

Ianto smiled politely, not really understanding why Mr Williams would tell him all this. Unless they lawyer wanted to ensure him about the discretion with which his case – whatever it might be – was being handled.

A few minutes later Maggie returned with the coffee – not an outstanding one, but Ianto found he could drink it – and with a handsome young man in a suit who was carrying a thick manila folder. Presumably the lawyer-candidate Mr Williams had spoken of, as he barely had eyes for anything (or anyone) else than the girl. Well, his wife, apparently.

“The case you’ve asked for, Mr Williams,” he said, placing the folder on the desk of his boss.

Mr Williams nodded.

“Thank you, Brian. Now, off with you two. Mr Jones and I will need about an hour here – make the most of it. I’ll take possible phone calls right in the office during your absence.”

“Yes, sir,” the newlyweds echoed as one and left eagerly.

Mr Williams waited until he could hear the front door fall shut behind them. Only then did he turn to Ianto again.

“Mr. Jones, these documents,” he briefly lifted the manila folder for emphasis, “have been entrusted to me by your father in absolute confidence, shortly after your birth. I’m the only person who’s ever seen them. Not even my partner knows what’s in there.”

“But _you_ do?”

“Yes. Your father needed a lawperson to officially witness and counter-sign the documents. He made the extra trip from Newport, where the family used to live at that time, to Cardiff just to make sure that nobody else would suspect anything.”

“Sounds ominous,” Ianto commented. “You’re not about to reveal to me that my father was secretly some kind of mafia boss, are you?”

“No; it’s not quite that dramatic, although I’m sure you’ll be fairly shocked anyway.”

Mr Williams picked up a paper knife from his desk and carefully removed the seal from the manila folder. Then he pulled out a long, narrow envelope first, which was also sealed.

“Your father came to me again after his wife died seven years ago,” he continued. “He brought this letter and told me that – in case of his death – you’ll need to read _this_ first, before you’d read the actual documents,” he removed this seal, too, and handed Ianto the still unopened letter. “I can leave you alone while you do it,” he offered.

“You don’t know what’s in the letter?” Ianto asked in surprise.

Mr. Williams shook his head.

“No; your father was quite insistent that you should be the only person to ever see its contents.”

“That’s odd,” Ianto murmured. “What was Tad up to?”

“Nothing sinister, I’m quite certain,” Mr Williams said. “Your father was a good, decent man, despite the unfortunate way he chose to cope with his wife’s death… and with the other misfortunes of his life. My assumption would be that he chose to reveal some facts that are _not_ in the documents I was instructed to hand over to you, and that he didn’t want others to know because of the deeply personal nature of those facts,” he rose from his seat. “I’ll go now and have a smoke outside. That usually takes me ten minutes. Would that be sufficient time for you to read the letter?”

Ianto nodded absently and Mr Williams left. Ianto waited for the door to close, then he took the paper knife from the lawyer’s desk, sliced the envelope open and took out a piece of paper that he immediately recognized. It was a British country show style piece of stationery in florals and pinks and pale greens – the brand his Mam had once preferred. He couldn’t remember having seen any of it in the house since his Mam had been taken to _Providence Park_ , but apparently, his Tad had kept them, at least for a while.

The letter itself was penned with his Tad’s precise, decorative handwriting – the one he’d had before his hands would start shaking due to his perpetually drunk state.

 _My dear boy Ianto_ , (it began)

_What I’m about to tell you might come as a shock, so before I expose you to an old family secret, I want to remind you that we have always loved you like a son…_

_Like a son_? Ianto’s hands began to shake. What was _that_ supposed to mean?

 _However_ , his Tad’s letter continued, _in the purely biological sense you’re not our son. You’re the son of my beloved sister, Bronwyn, who died at childbirth, bringing you into this world…, and, thankfully, into our lives_.

 _What_? Ianto stared at the letter until the words started to dance before his eyes. His Tad was his uncle, not his true father? And his Mam wasn’t his mother? In fact, he wasn’t even related to his own Mam by blood? How had he ended up as their son then?

_The thought to give you away never occurred to us, not for a moment_ , the letter went on. _Your Mam had several miscarriages, and we were told that she couldn’t have any more children after Rhi. So you were like a gift from God to us; a gift for which we were grateful. But we’d have taken you anyway, even if we’d had a dozen children of our own._

Ianto believed _that_ without question. Mam and Tad had always been generous. But what had happened to his father? Had he never wanted as much as see his son? He hoped the letter would answer that particular question.

_Your father – your biological father – never learned about your existence. He didn’t even know that Bronwyn was pregnant at the time they broke up. Bronwyn wanted it so. He came from a wealthy and influential family that would never accept her – or you. His affair with your mother was his only effort to break away from the family pressure. I assume it failed, but I can’t tell for sure._

Ianto stopped reading. He needed a moment for the first shock to pass. It would come back later, he knew; that was how his analytical mind usually worked. Right now, though, said mind was too numb to work _at all_. His entire life, everything he’d known and believed in for nearly twenty years, had just been turned upside down and inside out.

Everything save _one_ fact. He knew and believed as firmly as ever that his parents – well, his _adoptive_ parents, it seemed – had loved him like their own. There had been ample proof for that all his life. Not even his Tad’s drinking habit had ever changed _that_. And at least there was _some_ blood relation. Close enough to remain a family, even after the big revelation.

Or so he hoped. It remained to see how Rhi might react to the news.

He wondered, though, why his Tad had chosen to reveal the truth to him at all. There was clearly no danger of his biological father wanting him back; the man obviously wasn’t even aware of having an illegitimate son. And even if he had been, he’d most likely _not_ want a bastard child to disturb his well-ordered life.

But as he thought about it, Ianto realized that his Tad was right. He _needed_ to know this. Not because he’d want to seek out the man who’d accidentally sired him. He was more than happy with the simple, hard-working family he’d been part of all his life. For all intents and purposes, he _was_ a Jones – whatever else he might be, and he never wanted to be anything else.

However, secrets like this were never completely secure. His Tad had apparently gone great lengths to keep him hidden from a rich and powerful family that might not even _want_ him to exist. But there had to be a hospital or a maternity ward or, at the very least, a midwife who knew that Bronwyn Jones had given birth to a son nineteen years ago. His father’s family could easily hunt those people down if determined enough to find him.

Such people always had the means to get what they wanted. Therefore it was safer for Ianto to know what – or probably _whom_ – to expect.

In that spirit, he returned to his Tad’s letter.

 _You’ll notice that your true father’s name is not given in your original birth certificate_ , it continued. _Bronwyn never wanted him to know. She loved him very much; or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that she was fascinated by him. Not by his money; your mother never cared much for material things. But she described him as a man of keen intelligence who never dared to give in to his true caring nature and considered feelings as a weakness – while desperate for being loved._

_Whether she was right or just saw him through rose-tinted glasses, I can’t tell. I never met the man myself. Neither can I tell you what you should do: seek him out or forget him and continue your life the same way you’ve lived it so far. It’s entirely up to you, son._

_There’s one thing in which I disagree with Bronwyn, though. I’ve made some careful inquiries and found out that your biological father doesn’t have a family of his own. No wife, no children – nothing but a troublesome younger brother. Whether it’s by choice or by some misfortune, I never managed to find out. There is, however, the chance that he might want contact to the son he never knew he had._

_In any case, I think he has the right to know. And since whenever you’ll get to read this I’ll be dead already, perhaps you will want to know him, too._

_It’s probably selfish of me not having told you all this while I was still alive, I know; and I apologize. But I was afraid that he might want you – and he does have the power to take you from me. That, I couldn’t bear. I hope you’ll forgive me one day._

“Oh, Tad!” Ianto whispered, fighting back his tears violently – and losing.

Forgive his Tad? If anything, he was grateful that Ifan Jones hadn’t come out with the truth earlier. That he hadn’t allowed some faceless rich man to stake claim of Ianto and take him away from the only family he’d ever known.

He wiped his eyes and returned to the letter.

 _So that’s what I’m gonna do, as soon as I’ve finished writing this_ , Ifan Jones continued. _After my death, a different law firm is gonna send your father another sealed letter, with a copy of your birth certificate and the adoption papers. There will also be a document in which your Mam and I officially declare that we’ll never raise any demands – financial or otherwise – towards him and his family._

_By the letter of the law you’re our son and have no claim for whatever is his. If he wants to know you, he’ll be welcome. But he’ll have to make the first step; and it will be up to the two of you to figure out the terms._

_Ianto, in case I’ve failed to tell you how proud your Mam and I always have been of you and how much you’ve enriched our lives, I apologize. You’re everything any set of parents could hope for in a son, and we always loved you very much. Don’t allow this secret to get between us after we’re gone. We only did what Bronwyn asked us to do and what we thought would be in your best interest._

_In love, your Tad.  
Ifan Jones_

Ianto carefully folded the letter again, put it back into the envelope and replaced it in the manila folder. Apparently, his ten minutes were over by then, as Mr Williams re-entered the office, bringing with him a gush of fresh air and the faint smell of cigarette smoke.

Suddenly Ianto felt the desperate craving for a smoke, too. He wasn’t a heavy smoker, but it sometimes helped him to collect himself. Not the nicotine itself as much as going through the whole small ritual of choosing a cigarette, lighting it, taking the first draught…

“Is everything all right?” Mr Williams asked.

Ianto nodded. “This was… unexpected,” he admitted.

“The understatement of the decade, I presume,” Mr Williams said in a strangely paternal manner. “Well, now that you've been filled in with the necessary details, you can as well take a look at these documents.”

“To what end?” Ianto asked with a shrug. “According to Tad’s letter, the only thing I’d really like to know isn’t even there.”

“And that thing would be?”

“Who my real father is. No,” he corrected himself, “I mean my _biological_ father. As far as I’m concerned, Tad has always been and will always remain my _real_ father.”

“But you’d still like to know…?”

“Where the other half of the genetic material has come from? Yes, I would. If for no other reason than to understand myself better. To know where certain things came from; things that used to drive Tad up the walls.”

“What kind of things?” the lawyer asked with genuine interest.

“Things like my hang to figuring out people’s lives based on their fashion sense or body language,” Ianto explained. “Or my freakishly good memory that certainly doesn’t run in the family. Nobody else has it, so I guess it must come from… from the other side.”

Mr Williams nodded slowly. “Yes, that would actually fit.”

“You know who my father is?” Ianto asked in surprise.

The lawyer nodded again. “I made some of the inquiries for Mr Jones, so yes, I can give you a name if that’s what you want. I can even tell you something about the man’s background. Not much, though; people like him can afford to pay for their privacy.”

“I’ll make go with what little you can give me,” Ianto said. “Just giving a name to a phantom I didn’t even know to exist until now would be helpful.”

“I certainly can help you with that.”

And indeed, Mr Williams gave him a name that said absolutely nothing to Ianto. He said so, and the lawyer nodded grimly.

“Of course you haven’t heard of him before. Blending into the background seems to be his speciality.”

“Is he…” Ianto hesitated. “Is he some sort of high-end criminal, coming from an influential family?”

Mr Williams shook his head. “No. As far as I’ve been informed, your father occupies a minor position in the British government.”

 _Fantastic_ , Ianto thought in exasperation. _My father works for the bloody government. And Tad has just informed him that he’s got a grown son. An illegitimate son with a most unsuitable woman from his misspent youth. That’s gonna down well – NOT!_

“Should I be worried?” he asked warily. “I’m not gonna be yanked into some mysterious black car with tinted glasses, never to be seen again, am I?”

“Unlikely,” Mr Williams replied dryly. “I supervised the documents your biological father is getting sent to about this very time. Mr Jones made it very clear that due to the adoption any claims you might have had towards your father have been declared null and void. He was sure you’d agree.”

“I do,” Ianto said. “I’m a Jones, and that’s more than enough for me. I want to build my future according to my own interests, on my own terms. But will somebody like this man believe it? Or would he think it’s all a trick so that I can blackmail him later?”

“That’s a very good question,” Mr. Williams admitted. “Unfortunately, not one I could answer with any certainty. There _are_ some risks involved, I won’t deny that. Powerful men in high positions generally don’t like surprises. But your mother must have seen something in the man, so perhaps you should give him a chance. Who knows, he might even surprise you.”

“He’s not the only one who doesn’t like surprises,” Ianto muttered darkly. “And I’m worried about Rhi and her family, too. Thank God that I’m moving to London anyway. At least that way they won’t get caught in the crossfire.”

“You’re not going to tell anything of this your sister?” Mr Williams asked.

Ianto realized with a sinking heart that he didn’t actually _have_ a sister. Well, he at least still had a cousin. That was still blood relation, even if on a lesser grade.

He shook his head. “No; I will simply tell him that Tad left with you a declaration that there’s no mortgage on the house and that he didn’t have any debts. Why rob her of the comfort of having a brother when she’s just lost her father? No good would come of her knowing the truth, just unnecessary grief. It’s better if everything stays as it used to be.”

“That might not be possible in the long run,” Mr Williams warned him.

“Perhaps not,” Ianto shrugged,” but I’ll do my best to keep it that way as long as I can.”


	2. The Letters of Ifan Jones, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I’ve moved Ianto’s birth date from 1983 to 1985, for the simple reason that the technology used in “Sherlock” (smartphones and the likes) wouldn’t have been so generally used five years earlier. Since this is an AU anyway, I took the poetic licence in this matter, too.
> 
> In the same venue, the British Cabinet is not populated by Real Life politicians, of course. I’m sure that Dr Who fans will recognize them, though. *g*
> 
> The details on Mycroft’s possible education and his daily work have been borrowed from the ibelieveinmycroft website – with the necessary alterations to fit this story.

**CHAPTER 02 – THE LETTERS OF IFAN JONES, PART 2**

Mycroft Holmes left his office roughly three hours after everyone else – a fairly regular occasion in his line of work – and ordered his driver to take him to the _Diogenes Club_. He still had a considerable pile of personal mail to get through, and the club was the best place to do so undisturbed.

There was a lot to say for an institution where the members were not allowed to speak to each other at all. 

“Thank you, Smith,” he said to his driver when the black car pulled up in front of the elegant, white-painted building with the bronze plaque outside declaring it to be the _Diogenes Club_. “Keep your buzzer on. I’ll signal you when I need the car.”

“Yes, Mr Holmes, sir,” Mickey Smith did his best to sound as a proper employee of such a powerful man should but still failed. The lack of education was so hard to overcome! Mummy did complain from time to time how hard it was to find the kind of personnel they needed for the Holmes estate. Apparently, she wasn’t exaggerating.

Well, at least Smith _tried_ , unlike that stupid blonde git, the daughter of Mummy’s cook. A pity Smith had fallen for her. She only dragged him even more down, to her level.

Unfortunately, most people were slaves of their hormones.

Mycroft shook his head to free his mind from such trivialities as the personal life of their personnel and walked into the _Club_. After crossing a small antechamber, he entered the large room that – back when the building used to one of be his father's townhouses – had been the drawing room.

Matching the wealth and importance of its former owner – Richard Holmes had happened to be the original founder of the _Club_ – it was a conservative yet very elegant room. A large marble fireplace dominated it, the fire as yet unlit, since the weather wouldn’t justify the heating yet, and the _Club_ ’s traditions forbade such modern-day forgeries as holographic flames for mere atmosphere. The walls had heavy wooden panelling, and ornate white plaster coving.

Five small, round tables stood in the room, in respectable distance from each other, each with a single armchair beside it. Four of them were currently occupied by conservatively – and most expensively – dressed middle-aged or elderly gentlemen reading newspapers. They seemingly didn’t take notice of each other – or the arrival of Mycroft, for that matter – but Mycroft knew it better.

One of the older men, the one sitting at the far end of the room, was clearly recognizable by his military stance and by his exaggerated sideburns as a former Navy officer. Which he had been once, back in his youth. No longer, though. Commodore Harry Sullivan – an old friend of Mycroft’s father and co-founder of the _Club_ – was currently Deputy Director of MI5 and even a fly would have been hard-pressed to fly by him unnoticed.

Mycroft went straight to his personal office in the _Club_ , where another pile of mail was waiting for him to be read and sorted. Most of it was of personal nature; he wouldn’t risk redirecting official correspondence here. Famous though the Club’s discretion might be, that wouldn’t have been secure. So he always carried his official mail with him, in a secured briefcase, and never left it lie unobserved _anywhere_. Not even here.

His _personal_ letters, on the other hand, could nowhere else be safer. The all-male personnel of the _Club_ had been ingrained the principles upon which this unique institution operated, and discretion, with a capital D, was the most important one of those principles.

Mycroft accepted the perfect cup of tea from Wilf, his elderly manservant, with a gracious nod. It was a slight bending of the rules to acknowledge the mere existence of the old man; but Wilfred Mott had been his father’s valet for decades and had continued serving the Holmes family head – who happened to be Mycroft at the moment – after Richard Holmes’s death with unbroken loyalty and devotion. Wilf was a national treasure; the perfect British servant of a British gentleman – not many of his kind could still be found in the UK.

Settling down with his tea, Mycroft began to sort through the pile of mail that had accumulated on his desk during the recent few days. Those days had been very busy, full of international and local crises, so he hadn’t got the chance to come over to the _Club_ and relax in its comfortable, soothing atmosphere. He only now realized how much he’d missed it.

The pile was… considerable. It always surprised him how many people – meaning private persons, not some fellow officials – still took the effort to actually _write_ letters. Mummy and her generation… well, that was understandable, he supposed. They weren’t comfortable with using modern technology like smartphones, so it was the obvious chance for _them_. But everyone _else_? Why wasting time and risking that the message would get lost somewhere along the convulted ways of the postal service?

To be fair, most of the letters _were_ from Mummy and from old family friends. _Old_ being the key word here. Even Aunt Diane found texting too tedious, which was strange from somebody who had crossed the Atlantic with an old-fashioned double-decker airplane, just to show that she could do it. Of course, her hands probably trembled too much now to operate the touch-screen of a smartphone properly.

The majority of the mail contained invitations to various tea parties and the likes from Mummy’s acquaintances. Mummy knew, of course, that her sons would never go to such parties – Mycroft was too busy keeping the government working and Sherlock just couldn’t be bothered, declaring such social gatherings as deadly dull – but the elderly ladies and gentlemen didn’t give up so easily. If nothing else, their persistence did deserve a certain level of respect, Mycroft thought absently, throwing one invitation after another into the waste-paper basket for Wilf to get rid of them later.

The last letter, on the bottom of the pile, was different, though. It was a large manila envelope, the kind in which usually official documents were mailed, and it bore the signature of some law firm in Swansea he’d never heard of before: _Cooper & Williams_. There was also a note from John Smith, the Holmeses’ family lawyer, explaining that the letter had arrived on the previous day, with the request to deliver it to his private address. Which could mean two things. Either the law firm didn’t know his address – possible, though unlikely, as the Holmes manor house had been a fairly well-known feature since Victorian times – or _Cooper & Williams_ wanted to go through the official cannels for some reason.

Well, there was only one way to find out. Picking up the paper knife, Mycroft carefully cut the envelope open…

… only to find another two envelopes within. One was manila, only slightly smaller than the outer one and sealed. The other was a regular-sized white one, bearing the official logo of _Cooper & Williams_.

He opened that one first. Inside, he found a short message, written on a computer and printed out, by the sight of it, on an old-fashioned HP inkjet printer. A small law firm then, Mycroft decided, and probably not a very successful one if they couldn’t afford better equipment. He’d have Nerys check on them later.

 _Dear Mr Homes_ , (the letter said)

_We’ve been instructed by our client, a certain Mr Ifan Jones, to send you this sealed envelope in case of his death seven years ago. As Mr Jones has indeed recently deceased, we are hereby fulfilling our task._

_Yours sincerely,  
Barry Williams_

Seven years ago? And only to be delivered upon his death? This Ifan Jones, whoever he might have been, certainly gave this a lot of thought, Mycroft considered. Therefore this couldn’t be the usual plea for help – for money or for personal favours – from old friends he’d never known he possessed.

Like all wealthy men, Mycroft Holmes had his fair share of _old friends_ hoping for his help. It might even have worked – with a different target. Mycroft clearly remembered _not_ having any friends at school or university. He’d always had allies, co-workers or useful acquaintances… but not friends. A Holmes had no use for friends, Father had always said, and Mycroft had grown to accept that. Even agree with it.

This case seemed to be different, though, so he shrugged and sliced open the big manila envelope, too. Out came several documents – based on the discrepancy between their dating and their fairly new state obviously copies.

A quick glance at the verification on the bottom of each page – done by the same Mr Barry Williams from _Cooper & Williams_ seven years previously – reaffirmed his theory. 

Again, the seven years. This was getting curiouser and curiouser.

Unfolding the first document he saw that it was the birth certificate of a certain Ianto Jones, born in Newport, Wales, on August 19th, 1988. His mother was noted as Bronwyn Jones, his father unknown.

The second document was the death certificate of the samesome Bronwyn Jones, dated from the same day. The mother of the child had apparently died in childbirth.

The third document was the certificate of the adoption of Ianto Jones by Ifan Jones and his wife, Madelyn Lloyd. Dated from only a week after the birth of the child, with an attached declaration of Bronwyn Jones, prepared in advance, that – should anything happen to her – her as-yet unborn child should be given into the care of her brother and his wife.

As if she’d had a hunch that the birth might be difficult.

Attached to this was a declaration of Ifan and Madelyn Jones (née Lloyd), verified by some other lawyer of Newport, that due to the adoption they relinquished any claims the child might have towards his biological father, be it of financial nature or otherwise. This document, too, was dating from the day of the adoption. 

Clearly, the Joneses wanted to keep the child and never intended the natural father to even know of his existence. So what had made Ifan Jones change his mind?

The next document answered _that_ question. It was the death certificate of Madelyn Jones (née Lloyd), from seven years previously. Mycroft made a quick calculation in his head. The child had been twelve when his adoptive mother – the only mother he’d ever known – died. Ifan Jones most likely wanted to ensure that the boy wouldn’t’ stand alone, orphaned, in case something would happen to _him_ , too. At the same time, he hadn’t wanted to give up his adopted son – his _nephew_ – as long as he was still alive.

These documents had apparently been sealed and kept in the archives at _Cooper & Williams_ for the last seven years. Now Ifan Jones had died, and the lawyers had dutifully sent them to Mycroft Holmes, a man who’d never had any contact with the simple Welsh family, who’d never in his life set foot in Wales to begin with.

What was the meaning of this?

The key to the mystery was doubtlessly Bronwyn Jones who’d died in childbirth nineteen years ago and who’d never wanted the father of her child to know about it.

Nineteen years ago… that would mean the child had been conceived roughly twenty years ago. Around the same time when Mycroft had been in Oxford. Before his father’s death. But what on Earth could he _possibly_ have done with Bronwyn Jones and her illegitimate child? He’d just ended his short affair with Briony, Professor Elizabeth Shaw’s secretary, at that time. After Father had found out about his… indiscretion.

The realization hit him unexpectedly and with almost stunning force. Unlike Sherlock, he couldn’t simply delete unpleasant or irrelevant facts from his brain. But, unlike Sherlock, he didn’t have a photographic memory, either (although a much better one than most people, than you very much); and he’d developed a method of storing such facts in far-away, seldom used corners of his brain, just in case they might be needed later.

Like that fact that Briony was just a nickname, because Bronwyn Jones hated her given name.

Which could only mean one thing: that Ianto Jones was, in fact, his son.

A son of whose existence he’d never been informed. A son who perhaps still believed that Ifan Jones was his father. A son who now stood alone in the world, barely nineteen and most likely quite penniless. Briony’s family had never been wealthy, which had been the main reason of Father’s disapproval. 

The other reason being that they’d been Welsh. Father had always despised the Welsh, for reasons unknown to anyone else.

Now, this was certainly a bombshell if there had ever been one dropped onto Mycroft’s lap. The question arising was: what to do with this unexpected knowledge? If Ifan Jones was as concerned about the well-being of his son as he seemed to be, then Ianto had probably already been told the truth about his true origins… or he would be informed very shortly.

Would he seek out his father? Would he resent the choice of his adoptive parents to relinquish in his name any claim he might have towards his biological father? Especially when he learned that said father was a wealthy and influential man?

And did he, Mycroft, wanted to burden himself with the care of a previously unknown, illegitimate son? A son who’d been raised in a plebeian Welsh family and would probably never fit in with the Holmes clan?

What would Mummy say when she learned about this? True, she sometimes expressed genuine regret that neither of her sons seemed willing to give her any grandchildren and that the Holmes family would likely end with the current generation. But would she accept the bastard of a lowly-born Welshwoman as her grandson?

Before he could make any decisions, he needed more data, Mycroft decided. Knowledge was power, after all, and he had the means to gain that kind of power.

He took out his phone and quickly fired off a text message to his PA who was currently going by the name of Nerys.

_Need all available data about the following persons: Ianto Jones, born in Newport on August 19th, 1988. Bronwyn Jones, died on the same day. Madelyn Jones née Lloyd, died on July 6th, 1955. And Ifan Jones, recently deceased. Top priority. Also a complete profile of the law firm Cooper & Williams in Swansea. MH._

He hit the Send button and pocketed his phone. Now all he could do in this matter was to wait. Fortunately, Nerys was quick and efficient with that sort of information gathering.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
As expected, Nerys did her homework with the usual efficiency and in record time. The files on the entire Jones family – _and_ on _Cooper & Williams_ – were waiting for Mycroft’s inspection by 7 pm.

Understandably enough, he took Ianto’s file in hand first. He wanted to know what kind of person his unknown son might be.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to judge by. The boy had led a rather uneventful life so far. Lived in Newport with his adoptive parents until the age of twelve, when his mother – well, his aunt, obviously – died, after having spend about two years in some psychiatric institute in Cardiff named _Providence Park_ due to her increasingly worsening depressions.

At the same time Ifan Jones – a master tailor by trade and apparently a skilled one – had lost his little business because of the economic recession, and the entire family moved to Cardiff. They had to sell their house in Newport and lived in the much smaller one of the deceased grandparents from that time on. There the father had taken a cashier job at Debenham’s to feed his children somehow.

Because, Mycroft realized in surprise, his son hadn’t grown up as a single child. There was apparently an older sister – well, a cousin, really – with whom the boy seemed to get on well enough. According to the numerous photos attached to the files, there was even a strong family resemblance between the two of them – _and_ Ifan Jones, except that the girl had brown eyes.

But that was to be expected. They _were_ related, after all.

Nerys had been incredibly thorough, as always. There were copies of Ianto’s school certificates; even a copy from his file at school. General consensus among his teachers seemed to be that he was an able student but nothing extraordinary. How disappointing.

Still, he seemed to have an extremely good memory, upon which he relied instead of working hard. Thus he’d managed well enough to be accepted at the London School of Economics, where he was supposed to start his studies in this very trimester.

That, at least, sounded promising. Mycroft wondered whether his son had a photographic memory like Sherlock or simply an extremely reliable one like himself. It was unlikely that he’d have been tested in that pathetic state school he’d attended to in Cardiff, but such tests could always be done afterwards. The boy was a Holmes, after all, he ought to have a keen intelligence. Perhaps it had just been the school that couldn’t support him properly.

The rudimentary character analysis done by some harried school psychologist described him as friendly but reserved, extremely organized and empathically polite. He apparently _could_ work hard for an impressively long time, but he didn’t seem to have found his true interest yet. So he’d chosen to study economics and EDT, until he might find something better.

The next remark shocked Mycroft a bit. His son had a criminal record? Well, not a record, exactly. One minor conviction for shoplifting, at the age of thirteen. That must have been right after his adoptive mother’s death and the involuntary move to Cardiff. For a boy in his early teens, those must have been profound changes. A good thing that he’d moved on, towards more acceptable methods of coping.

He also seemed to have had a number of temporary jobs, starting at the age of fifteen, until two years ago he’d landed a permanent job at a small coffee shop in Cardiff, the _Arabian Nights Café_ (how quaint!), owned by a certain Mr. Llewellyn. He was reported to be the best barista the café had ever known… which didn’t necessarily mean a lot. Perhaps his predecessors had simply been useless.

Not that it would mean much to Mycroft anyway. He was a tea person. It was the principle of the thing. No British person of proper education would lower himself to coffee when there was tea to have.

Except Sherlock, of course, but that was a different matter entirely.

Mycroft scowled in displeasure. Granted, coming from such a peasant background, it was quite a feat to matriculate at University at all. Still, a Holmes – even an illegitimate one – was supposed to get a better education. Preferably in one of the good, old-fashioned boarding schools where the leaders of the nation had been bred and groomed since the times of Queen Victoria. Like Eton. Or Harrow. Or Westminster.

It wasn’t so much a question of following the national curriculum or not; most public schools _did_ follow it anyway, simply because the national curriculum taught towards the GCEs and A-levels. But they focused more on the traditional subjects, like Maths, English, French, history, geography, religious education, Latin, Greek or science. They also had a thriving music, art and theatre timetable, as well as a definite emphasis on team sports. The _level_ of education one received in a public school was something one couldn’t get anywhere else.

First and foremost, though, boarding schools served the building of character, the ingraining of social graces and the establishing of _contacts_ that would later prove very useful. Could he hope that his son – even if he decided to acknowledge the boy, which wasn’t a done deal yet – would find his way in the proper social circles without this background? Yes, the boy’s profile did say that he was reserved and polite, which would be a good start, and growing up as the son of a master tailor probably enabled him to wear a suit properly, but would that be enough?

The data was still insufficient to make any decision, in either direction, Mycroft decided. Learning about the boy’s past was useful, yes, but it didn’t tell him anything about the person Ianto was _now_.

He sent another quick message to Nerys.

_Find out current location of Ianto Jones. Need full background check. MH._

Hitting the Send button, Mycroft Holmes returned his attention to other matters for the time being. Matters of national security, which couldn’t wait. His personal problems became of secondary importance in the face of the Work.

Strangely enough, this was the only matter in which he and Sherlock ever agreed: the importance of the Work. And that it always should thought of with a capital W.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto had arrived in London two weeks previously, but he was still accommodating. The rhythm of the throbbing metropolis – like the heartbeat of some great, mythical beast – was so very different than what he’d been used to in Cardiff. Not that Cardiff would be some measly country town, it really wasn’t; but London was one of its kind.

It fascinated Ianto… even frightened him a bit.

So far, he’d been fortunate. Internet research had turned out as helpful as he’d hoped it would He’d found an admittedly bleak little bed-sit in walking range from university – even though he had to share it with a fellow student. And – after working as an ersatz waiter in a Spanish restaurant called _Tapas Brindisa Soho_ for a week – he’d unexpectedly found a job as a barista at _Angelo’s_.

That had been a relief. The _Tapas Brindisa_ had been one of those modern places, with its ugly, pale green front, and the distinctive hanging lights in the front window, which he wouldn’t mind so much personally, but where the clientele couldn’t make a difference between Starbuck’s revolting dishwater and real, decent coffee.

 _Angelo’s_ on the other hand… Every time he approached it after his university hours, Ianto had the strange feeling of coming home.

The place was… _interesting_ , to say the least. Rather old-fashioned, too, with the huge, ochre-framed windows that went all the way to the floor, consisting of 18 small, quadratic glass planes set in an olive green grid. The doorframe was olive green, too, and so was the menu card placed between the two windows, as log as he was tall. Ianto briefly wondered if it was a lot of bother to change the card – and if yet, who was the unlucky wretch to do it – or the menu remained the same all the time. The card certainly looked old enough.

The inside of the restaurant was every bit as warm and cosy as it appeared from the outside: with small, round tables and wide-backed, comfortable chairs, nicely carved of dark, polished wood, glassed wooden cabinets between the windows displaying the wine selection, and an aged mantelpiece with a globe and some kind of bust on it.

Of course, the fact that it was owned by an Italian ensured by default that coffee would get proper treatment here… which was the reason why Ianto had picked it out from all the job offers in the newspaper. He just couldn’t have imagined _how_ proper coffee would be treated here.

At first he’d been a bit wary about the bar owner, who looked like a third class mafia don (he was Sicilian, after all!). But all his worries were forgotten when he’d been shown the coffee machine for the first time.

It was a Faema. An old, classic espresso machine, originally made in the early 1960s, all reflective chrome and gleaming copper, in top condition and obviously well tended-to. A beauty, a real beauty.

Angelo had been watching him like a hawk as he circled the coffee counter, unable to tear his eyes from the sight.

“Do you know how to use it?” the Sicilian had asked.

Ianto had nodded absently. “My old boss in Cardiff had one of these, too. Slightly different model, true, but I’m sure the principle is the same. She’s a beauty; and with the right beans, she’d make very good coffee, too, I presume.”

Angelo’s eyes had gleamed in triumph, and that was basically it. Due to his unexpected expertise with an old Faema, Ianto had got the job and spent his evenings at _Angelo’s_ after university.

The place turned out to be better than he’d expected. Angelo, while clearly not entirely without mild criminal traits, was a fantastic cook, and he treated his staff – mostly young men without families of their own, like Ianto himself – as if they were his children. All in all, he was fairly content with the way his life was currently going.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“That was masterfully orchestrated,” Mycroft complimented his PA and laid the report back onto his desk.

Nerys gave him one of those inscrutable smiles.

“It really wasn’t that hard, sir,” she replied. “All I had to do was to play into the original barista’s hands some information about a much better paid job, and he was gone on the next day.”

“Was it an actual job?” Mycroft asked.

Not that he’d have been unduly bothered, had Nerys tricked the greedy barista. He needed Ianto somewhere where his people could watch the boy and set up a psychological profile. _Angelo’s_ was the ideal place for that.

Of course, the fact that Sherlock favoured _Angelo’s_ , even employed the help of the bar owner in his various cases, could be a problem. Sherlock, who could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb, could pick up sings undetectable to everyone else.

Everyone else but Mycroft himself, of course.

That would be… unfortunate. Mycroft didn’t intend to tell his wayward little brother about his son; not _now_ , in any case. Perhaps not later, either.

On the other hand, Sherlock’s observations could prove helpful by figuring out the boy’s motivations, if carefully – _very_ carefully – nudged into the right direction. And that advantage outweighed the risks in Mycroft’s opinion.

“How did you make the boy aware of the opening at Angelo’s?” he then asked.

Nerys shrugged. “I sent two people to that Spanish restaurant in the Soho, and they conveniently forgot their paper on the table, opened where I had certain job offers marked. _Including Angelo’s_.”

“That still didn’t mean the boy would choose it,” Mycroft pointed out.

Nerys gave him a wounded look. “Sir, you can trust me to cover all possibilities. _Of course_ I warned the others off. No-one else would give that boy a job.”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes I have the impression that I don’t pay you _nearly_ enough, my dear,” he then commented.

Nerys smiled. “That’s all right, sir. I don’t have the time to spend the money you pay me _now_. What could I possibly do with more? Speaking of which, sir, I think I should inform Mr Ellis that my next wages would have to go to a different name.”

“Oh?” Mycroft raised a surprised eyebrow. “Tired of Nerys already? What has it been, two years?”

“And a half,” she replied, “but it was a mistake from the beginning. It sounds too Welsh.”

“What about Alison, then?” Mycroft offered; finding his PA a new – temporary – name was an old game between them. “It does have a nice, serious ring to it.”

No-longer-Nerys shook her head. “Nah, I want something a little more… flippant this time. I think I’ll settle for Quilla.”

Mycroft’s eyebrow climbed even higher. “That is an actual name?”

Perhaps-Quilla nodded. “I once knew a girl who had it as her third name. Never liked it, though, so she never used it, which is a shame. It’s a good name.”

“It’s certainly unusual,” Mycroft allowed. “And it will give Mr Ellis something to complain about for several weeks.”

They exchanged faint smiles of understanding. John Ellis, the chief accountant of the Holmes estate, was an old-fashioned man who looked at _these modern things_ with deep suspicion and hated changes even more. Riling him up with insignificant little things was a harmless pleasure even Mycroft indulged in from time to time.

Even if it _did_ upset Mummy every time. Unlike her sons, Violet Holmes didn’t like it when people were riled up for no other reason than for entertainment.

“All right, then,” Mycroft said. “Text him. And we’d better upgrade Ianto Jones’ surveillance status. Grade Two Active”

Perhaps-Quilla shot him a surprised look. “Excuse me, sir, but is the young man a security risk?”

“I don’t know; not yet,” Mycroft replied thoughtfully. “He might become one; then again, he might not. In any case, it’s better to be prepared.”

“Understood, sir. Anything else?”

“Yes. Arrange me a meeting with Commodore Sullivan, as soon as it’s convenient for him. Preferably somewhere private, where we can’t be overheard.”

“Yes, sir. What shall I tell him?”

“That I need his insights in a personal matter. That should be enough.”

Perhaps-Quilla stared at him in mild shock but knew better than ask any questions. Still, her surprise was understandable. Holmes men were extremely private and reserved. They didn’t “share their feelings”, as modern therapists seemed to encourage everyone, making the world an even more disorganised and undisciplined place than it already was. 

They didn’t ask for advice in personal problems either, as a rule. Not even from old friends of the family whose discretion they could trust absolutely.

Of course, Holmes men didn’t have illegitimate sons with low-born Welshwomen, either. Not as a rule. Not that Mycroft would know of it. This was an unusual situation for a Holmes, and he needed the support of someone who was more experienced in such matters before he’d face Mummy.

He mentally shuddered from _that_ thought and forced his attention back to daily routine. “What’s next on schedule?”

Perhaps-Quilla studied her BlackBerry.

“Meeting with the Home Secretary at 18.30,” she then replied.

Mycroft suppressed a sigh. The Honourable Margaret Blaine, recently appointed as the Secretary of State for the Home Office, was a force of nature, and not easy to deal with. While looking like everyone’s favourite chubby aunt, she was intelligent, ruthless and ice cold: an inscrutable ally and a deadly enemy. Unlike many of her fellow politicians, she also knew all too well how the various branches of the Home Department worked, having filled a high position in MI5 before turning to politics.

Fortunately for Mycroft and for other senior civil servants, she also took the safety of the country very seriously. Dealing with a political adventurer of Harold Saxon’s format in the seat of the PM on one side and balancing out the disastrous incompetence of career politicians on the other one was enough to give anyone grey hairs prematurely. Having an ally in the Cabinet who actually _knew_ what she was doing was something Mycroft had come to value greatly.

That still didn’t mean that he’d _like_ to work with Margaret Blaine. They were a well-oiled team, yes, from her years with MI5, but frankly, she always gave him the creeps. Therefore remaining in her good graces was important.

“Let us go, then,” he said. “It would be a mistake to make the formidable Ms Blaine wait.”

"Yes, sir,” perhaps-Quilla gave the driver the Marsham Street address, then slid into the back seat. “Sir, you asked me to remind you of tomorrow’s consultation with Director Hartmann.”

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft climbed into the car, too, and accepted the folder with the familiar Torchwood Institute logo upon it: a big, stylised T, made up of hexagons. “The short term profile modifications must be defined without delay, if we want to stay on top of the market. Any incoming calls within the last hour?”

Perhaps-Quilla checked the call list. “Nothing that would require your immediate attention, sir.”

“Very well,” Mycroft opened the folder and turned his attention to a new research project suggested by a certain Dr. Rajesh Singh. “Deal with them, will you?”

She gave him one of those enigmatic smiles. “Of course, sir.”

 _She’s a godsend_ , Mycroft thought while skimming the document and making a mental note to have her take a closer look at this Dr. Singh; the man was obviously very good. 

He also realised that – whatever he might chose to do about Ianto – he wouldn’t be able to hide the boy’s true identity from his PA much longer. She was just too bright and too quick to connect the dots. Not that _that_ would be a problem. She was probably the only person he could trust unconditionally. Well, as much as he was able to do that anyway.

But a secret known by more than two people was hardly a secret at all.


	3. The Confessions of Mycroft Holmes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Diane Holmes is the female pilot from the Torchwood Season 1 episode “Out of Time”, in case anyone is interested. Of course, she’s a completely different character here. I don’t think I need to introduce Harry Sullivan, but just in case: he was a short-term companion of the 4th Doctor, a surgeon-lieutenant of the Royal Navy.
> 
> The idea of Mummy Holmes being the Viscountess of Sherringford was conceived by fellow fanfic writer **sevenpercent**. The name itself is semi-canon.

**CHAPTER 03 – THE CONFESSIONS OF MYCROFT HOLMES**

Commodore Harry Sullivan was understandably surprised when he got Mycroft Holmes’ message, in which the eldest son of his old friends requested a private meeting with him. That was a first. Of course, he’d known the Holmes family since having studied with Richard Holmes at Harrow, and they’d been close friends until Richard’s death. 

They both went to the Navy after school, dabbling in Naval Intelligence, among other things, but only Sullivan chose to become a career officer, like all his ancestors back to Victorian times. When the Navy sent him to medical school, Richard, too, quit service and went to Oxford, to follow his true calling as a scientist; his younger son had clearly inherited his scientific interest, if not the dogged determination to follow it.

A determination without which the Torchwood Institute, one of the biggest and best science institutes of the UK, would never have been founded.

Sullivan and Richard had even competed for the hand of Violet Sherringford in their youth. After some hesitation, Violet chose Richard – not that Sullivan would blame her. Richard had always attracted women, due to his flamboyant personality and his wealth; few men would have had the slightest chance against him. Still, that choice hadn’t harmed their friendship at all.

Richard and Violet had even asked him to be godfather to their sons, and Sullivan gladly complied. However, he hadn’t met the Holmes boys in private since Richard’s funeral. The _Diogenes Club_ – or working together with Mycroft on security projects – didn’t count as a _private_ meeting, and Sherlock avoided contact with his parents’ friends like the plague since the beginning of his drug problems. 

So Sullivan was really curious what _Mycroft’s_ problem might be. Mycroft had always been the stable, reliable one; the one who would follow his chosen path consequently. Having served as the Deputy Director of MI5 for years, Sullivan knew enough about Mycroft’s _career_ to be impressed. He just didn’t know much about Mycroft himself.

“He’s welcome any time between 2 pm and 5 pm tomorrow,” he told that preternaturally efficient secretary. “I’ll be home.”

He avoided the _Diogenes Club_ in the next morning, finding it easier to temper his own curiosity that way, as Mycroft often worked out of his private office within the _Club_. All the more eagerly was he now looking forward to the visit of the younger man, which had been announced for 3.30 pm.

As expected, Mycroft was punctual enough to set the clock after him (Sullivan remembered Violet having a thing about punctuality). The ancient clock on the mantelpiece had barely struck when the door opened and Benton – once his Chief Petty Officer in the Navy; his valet since his retirement – gravely announced:

“Mr. Holmes for you, Commodore.”

The visitor walked in briskly, and Sullivan had a weird sense of _déjá vu_ , as if he’d suddenly been thrown back at least forty years. The sharp tailoring of the expensive dark suit, with the flamboyant addition of the double-breasted waistcoat, combined with a silk tie and pocket square of the same shade of red, reminded him very much of his old friend, Richard.

Not that Mycroft would have much in common with his father in his looks; but he clearly had inherited Richard’s hand of dressing like a dandy. That tie clip, for example, was an unnecessary addition, purely for show, as the tie tucked into the waistcoat. But it certainly complemented the looks as a whole, and it seemed to be the same gold as his ring.

The presence of that ring surprised Sullivan, as – to his knowledge – neither of the Holmes boys had ever been married or even engaged. Also, he remembered a similar ring – or perhaps the same one – being worn by Richard Holmes, next to his wedding band, while Violet didn’t have one. He wondered what the purpose of it might be; a purpose that clearly went from father to firstborn son.

He also recognized the umbrella Mycroft was carrying. It was either the same one Richard would never go anywhere without, or an exact replica, made from Malacca wood by Fox’s, the high-end umbrella craftsmen. _Richard’s_ umbrella used to have a blade concealed in its handle. Sullivan wondered what _Mycroft’s_ umbrella might hide.

But this was not the time for irrelevant questions. The boy – Sullivan couldn’t help but think of Mycroft as a boy, despite the fact that they’d worked together on crisis management several times and he knew all too well what his godson was capable of – had come to him with a personal problem. This was a rare sign of trust, coming from someone who didn’t trust easily, and Sullivan was determined _not_ to disappoint him.

He rose from his armchair with a smile. “Mycroft!” he exclaimed. “I say, it’s good to see you, old chap! Come, have a seat! Fancy some tea?”

“Thank you, Uncle Harry, tea would be lovely,” Mycroft allowed Benton to take his Chesterfield overcoat and his umbrella and took the proffered seat, placing his leather briefcase carefully upon his knees.

That he called his godfather _Uncle Harry_ , instead of the respectful and slightly detached _Commodore_ of the official meetings told more about the private nature of his visit than anything else. Still, the commodore waited until Benton brought the tea and left.

“Well,” he then said, “what is this about? Family emergency? I recently had Violet on the phone and she didn’t mention anything. Or did Sherlock have another relapse?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, he’s doing surprisingly well. This ridiculous consulting detective business seems to work for him – save for the fact that his landlords keep throwing him out because of the mess he always makes with his so-called experiments. No; this is about me.”

The admission clearly pained him very much, which was understandable. Mycroft had always been the sane one in the family; the responsible one. Having inherited Violet’s more balanced personality, family matters had weighed upon his shoulder ever since Richard’s death.

Responsibility for the family estate; responsibility for the Torchwood Institute, which, after all, enabled the Holmeses to keep their manor house and to finance their lifestyle; responsibility for an errant younger brother often unable to deal with his own genius… and responsibility for the safety of the entire country. It was a lot for such a young man to deal with.

And yet he had dealt with all this burden amazingly well, never asking for help or for other than professional advice concerning his work – until now. Now, though, he seemed painfully out of his depth… for the first time ever.

“All right,” Sullivan said calmly. “Tell me what happened, and we shall see how we can right it.”

“I made a mistake,” Mycroft stared into his tea morosely. “I made a mistake, and now it’s come back to bite me.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly informative, Sullivan found. It had to be _some_ mistake if Mycroft was so riled up about it. No; not exactly _riled up_ – deadly embarrassed would be the proper description.

“So, what have you done?” the commodore asked jovially, trying to ease the tension with a joke. “Got somebody pregnant?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied bluntly, efficiently rendering the older man speechless.

Sullivan opened and closed his mouth several times, unable to produce any actual sound. He was painfully aware of the fact that he was making the adequate imitation of a traumatised goldfish but he couldn’t help himself.

 _Mycroft_ Holmes knocking someone up? Mycroft, who hasn’t shown any interest in the opposite gender since university, despite all the pretty young things working for him?”

“Tell me it isn’t your PA,” the commodore finally said because _that_ would have been highly unprofessional, aside from being horribly stupid.

Mycroft gave him a scandalized look.

“ _What_? Of course not, Uncle, this isn’t a recent event. It happened almost twenty years ago, when I was at university. I just didn’t know about it – until three weeks ago.”

“What happened three weeks ago then?” the commodore asked. “Did the kid simply show up on your doorstep, demanding his Papa? Or is it a she?”

“It’s a boy,” Mycroft replied. “Nineteen years old; and no, he didn’t just show up. In fact, I haven’t even met him yet.”

“Hmmm,” Sullivan stroked his extensive sideburns thoughtfully. “Care to go a bit more into detail, son? Right now this is a bit beyond me, I’m afraid.”

Mycroft opened his briefcase, took out a large manila envelope and handed it to him.

“I got these papers exactly three weeks ago, from some quaint law firm in Swansea,” he explained. “Go on, take a look!”

The commodore studied the documents thoroughly. Then he put them back into the envelope and handed it back to his godson, before rising and walking to the cupboard.

“I say a drop of brandy would be the thing now,” he said conversationally, while he poured a drink for them both. “That must have been a nasty surprise for you.”

“Uncle, you’re the master of understatement,” Mycroft answered sarcastically. Sullivan shrugged.

“At my age, I haven’t got enough puff to get over-excited anymore. So, what are you gonna do about this newfound son of yours?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft admitted. “For the first time in my life, I have no idea what to do.”

“It isn’t necessary, you know, to do _anything_ , “Sullivan pointed out. “You could be making a fuss about nothing at all. The adoptive parents _did_ sign that document; the one in which the boy gives up all potential claim on you.”

“And we both know that such a wish would never stand half a chance before a court,” Mycroft waved dismissively. “I wonder why their lawyers didn’t tell them _that_.”

“Perhaps they did; lawyers usually are very thorough with such things,” Sullivan said. “But those good people probably didn’t listen. Look, all this recrimination is pretty pointless, isn’t it? The real question is: do you intend to have any contact with the boy? He’s your only child, after all, no matter the circumstances of his birth. Unless you’ve got doubts that he’s in fact yours…”

“Oh, he _is_ mine all right,” Mycroft said darkly. “That was the first thing I had checked; the DNA-analysis came back positive. I just don’t know what I could possibly do with a son who grew up in a plebeian Welsh family. Father would roll in his grave if he knew.”

“Good for him,” Sullivan returned with dry humour. “He could have used a bit of exercise while still alive. Developed a real pouch in his late years, he did.”

Mycroft stared at his godfather incredulously. “ _Father_ had a weight problem? _My_ father?”

“Well, at least Violet seemed to think so,” Sullivan replied. “Personally, I see nothing wrong with a little padding around a gentleman’s waistline, but your mother, God bless her, has always been obsessed with excess weight, healthy food and other such nonsense,” he grinned at Mycroft. “Of course, she never stood a chance with Sherlock, who’s thin like a wraith, but I bet she regularly gives _you_ hell about your weight.” 

“Mummy has a thing about discipline,” Mycroft muttered uncomfortably. 

The commodore grinned at him again. “Which is, I say, one of the reasons why you don’t want to tell her about the son you’ve just found, right?”

Mycroft nodded glumly. “She’d be furious. Even more so than Father was when he found out about my… er… affair with the boy’s mother.”

“And you always wanted to be her perfect son,” Sullivan said. It wasn’t a question. He’d always known that while Mycroft had gone great lengths to meet his father’s sometimes too high expectations, it was his mother whom he’d wanted to please more than everyone else. “Well, I think I can put your mind at ease in this particular matter. Violet has always been more… forgiving towards the folly of youth than Richard.”

“ _What_?” Mycroft was positively shocked now. “But wasn’t Father always worried about us meeting Mummy’s expectations?”

“He was worried about himself, first and foremost,” Sullivan told him. “Because he wasn’t the one with the true aristocratic roots and the hereditary title and all that stuff. _Violet_ was. Although coming from a good enough family himself, Richard always felt… well, a bit inadequate, compared with her. He was more of old money than of old blood.”

Mycroft nodded absent-mindedly because that was certainly true. The Holmes side of the family had started its career in the Victorian Era, making their future in the rapidly developing industry, while more blue-blooded aristocrats whose wealth was based on their holdings suddenly found themselves near penniless. 

The Holmeses had been a cadet branch of a rather unremarkable family of minor country gentry; a branch that had started with a younger son and had inherited a holding too small to support the lifestyle typically expected from their class. Fortunately, Mycroft’s great-grandfather had taken an interest in the industrial development and recognized the possibilities offered by them. He’d also had the business sense to grab the chance in time, and thus the Torchwood Institute had been born in the late 19th century. 

Holmes men working for the government for generations ensured that they always knew in which branch of the industry investment and research would pay off best; that helped them to remain on top of the market most of the times. Mycroft himself had followed this path since entering Civil Service at a fairly young age; the only thing he regretted was the fact that he didn’t understand the actual science behind. If Sherlock hadn’t been such a stubborn fool…

He shook his head. His brother’s adamant refusal to put that amazing scientific mind of his into the service of the family business was a constant nuisance for him, but not the current problem at hand.

“I didn’t know Father would feel that way,” he murmured. “He was the one who always acted like an eccentric aristocrat, not Mummy.”

“True; because Violet never _needed_ to act,” Sullivan reminded him. “She’s a Sherringford, and that’s more than enough. But she’s also a Vernet from her mother’s side; she unites in her the nobility of birth and the nobility of art… no wonder poor Richard always felt he had to prove his worth.”

“And that he always pressed _us_ so hard to be the perfect sons,” Mycroft commented dryly.

The commodore nodded. “Most likely, yes. But that’s neither here nor there. Richard is dead; and you need to tell Violet the truth.”

“Do I?” Mycroft asked darkly. “I can choose to ignore this so-called truth; and buy off the boy, should he suddenly discover filial feelings towards a father he’s never met.”

“No, you can’t; not really,” Sullivan replied bluntly. “And you know that as well as I do. The boy _is_ a Holmes; and it isn’t so as if you had any other children. Unless you get married and start a family very soon, he’s the only son you’ll ever have. And because of that, Violet would have an interest in him.”

“The son of a lowly Welsh tailor as the next Viscount Sherringford,” Mycroft commented cynically. “Mummy would _love_ it.”

“That’s something you’ll have leave to her to decide,” Sullivan said. “And the sooner you tell her about the boy the better. Violet doesn’t like to be kept in the dark,” he paused. “Do you need me to be there?”

Mycroft hesitated. Uncle Harry could always deal with Mummy better than anyone else. But this was a family matter. Mummy wouldn’t approve of the presence of any outsiders; not even that of an old family friend.

“No, I believe not,” he said slowly. “This is something I’ll have to do on my own, I’m afraid. Thanks for the offer, though.”

Sullivan took no offence. He’d known the Holmeses long enough to understand the strange family dynamics; probably better than the family itself, due to his different perspective as an outsider. He still had _one_ suggestion to make, though.

“If you take a piece of advice from me: make sure your Aunt Diane is present,” he said. “She’s been Violet’s best friend since… well, since forever. And she always favoured you.”

That, again, was very true. While Mummy had always had a soft spot for Sherlock, who’d inherited Father’s eccentric nature and made it an art form, Aunt Diane never tried to hide her preference for Mycroft. Perhaps having her present _would_ help.

 _One_ thing was certain, though. He’d keep the truth from _Sherlock_ as long as possible. The last thing he needed was the exposure to Sherlock’s scathing remarks.

Of course, it was doubtful that he’d be able to fool his observant little brother for long.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Getting a phone call from her favourite nephew wasn’t something that would have surprised Dame Diane Holmes in itself. She and Mycroft kept regular contact. Dame Diane, after retiring from the Women’s Royal Air Force in the rank of an Air Commander when the WRAF had merged with the regular RAF in 1994, marking the full assimilation of women into the British military and the end of the WRAF as an independent branch, kept working for the Secret Service till the current day, and that meant she had been in touch with her nephew through official channels all the time.

It was more than unusual, however, that Mycroft would call her on her private landline, only to request her presence at a hastily called-together family meeting.

“I have to tell Mummy something,” Mycroft admitted. “She won’t take it well, I’m afraid, so I could use your support, Auntie.”

“Of course, my boy, you know you can always count on me,” she said in genuine surprise. “Is this about Sherlock? What has he done this time?”

“Nothing; it has nothing to do with him for a change,” Mycroft sighed. “I wish it had; Mummy is always willing to forgive _him_ for everything.”

“I see,” the emphasis on the pronoun wasn’t lost on Dame Diane; she was a Holmes, after all. “I cannot imagine _you_ doing anything improper… unless you’ve gained some weight and are afraid of Violet’s tongue, but whatever it is, I shall stand behind you like a brick wall, I promise.”

“I wish it were as simple as a disagreement about proper body mass indeed,” Mycroft said glumly. “Thank you, Auntie; I shall send Smith with the car to fetch you.”

“Forget it, young man!” Dame Diane replied sharply. “I might no longer be twenty, but I’m no dotard yet, and I _do_ have a perfectly good car as you know. A perfectly good car that I can still drive perfectly well.”

“As long as you don’t drive any faster than your guardian angel can fly,” Mycroft delivered the ages-old private joke with his usual reliability. “It’s a car, not an airplane, you know.”

“Insolent pup,” Dame Diane could hear the genuine fondness in her own voice. “Don’t worry about me, my boy. I’m not a fool. I know what I’m capable of, and I know when to back off. See you in the manor house tomorrow, then. Take care.”

“You too, Auntie,” and with that, Mycroft hung up.

For a moment Diane Holmes glared at her now mute phone with a displeased scowl. She didn’t like this a bit. _Mycroft_ in trouble was not something she was used to. Sherlock, yes, God knows Violet had spoiled that boy terribly. Small wonder he’d become such a nightmare. But _Mycroft_? Dutiful, reliable, disciplined Mycroft? The man who’d dealt with idiotic politicians and terrorist threats successfully since his mid-twenties? Richard’s pride and joy, the apple of his father’s eye?

What could have _possibly_ happened? She’d never heard the boy so out of sorts in his entire life.

Oh, she was sure that others wouldn’t have noticed, not even Violet. _Especially_ not Violet, as Mycroft had always gone great lengths to keep a perfect façade in the presence of his mother. Quite frankly, Violet had always been a bit hard on the boy; always too busy with her over-favoured problem child, she’d simply expected from her firstborn to deal with everything else after Richard’s death… and Mycroft never failed to rise to those expectations. Which, considering the delicate day job he had to do, was not a small feat from such a young man.

Having worked along similar lines all her life, Diane Holmes was probably the only one in the family who knew _what_ exactly Mycroft did for a living. And it angered her very much that while a great deal of the boy’s time and resources had to be used to keep his wayward brother safe, Mycroft never got any thanks for his considerable efforts. Not from Violet and certainly not from Sherlock, who seemed to get willingly in trouble at times, just to piss his brother off. It was childish and irresponsible; and yet Violet took Sherlock’s side every time.

It wasn’t so that Dame Diane wouldn’t like her younger nephew; she did. But it insulted her sense of propriety that Sherlock would waste his life the way he’d done until recently. And even though he seemed to have reshaped his life into some semblance of order, it was still a waste in her eyes. The boy could have become a Nobel-prize winner chemist, had he put his mind to it. Or a philosopher. Or a classical concert violinist. Instead he’d chosen to hunt down criminals in the dirty alleys of London, regardless of his own safety.

What a stupid, selfish choice!

Dame Diane lit a cigarette and blew the smoke toward the smoke alarm detector defiantly. She’d disabled the stupid alarm long ago. This was her house, and no idiotic government would forbid her to smoke within her own four walls, dammit! Not even if her own nephew was practically running said idiotic government.

She smiled grimly. Richard’s boys had both picked up smoking from her, much to Violet’s dismay. Not that she’d have encouraged them, of course; it must have been some kind of rebellion against Violet’s strict health rules, just like Mycroft’s occasional cake excesses. Oh, she understood that Violet only wanted what was best for her family, health-wise, but there could be too much of a good thing. Small wonder Sherlock had developed such an aversion towards eating in general that it was almost an ongoing battle to get him to eat at all and looked like a wraith as a result.

Besides, Dame Diane thought after a contented glance into the beautiful glass on glass mirror hanging over her mantelpiece, despite her so-called unhealthy lifestyle, she still looked great for a 68-year-old. Granted, the dark mahogany colour of her hair was no longer natural (although convincing enough), but otherwise? She was still slim and trim and, as Harry Sullivan had put after her last physical, almost disgustingly healthy.

She smiled to herself. Even though her hopes had remained unfulfilled after Violet had chosen Richard over Harry, the commodore and she had stayed good friends. And a friendship that had lasted over forty years was better than a marriage that might have gone wrong, wasn’t it? The same thing that made them such great friends would probably have ruined their hypothetical marriage; they were simply too similar.

Speaking of which… she briefly wondered whether Harry knew about Mycroft’s problem. Though the boy was no longer as close to his godfather as he used to be in his youth, they often worked together, and Mycroft trusted Harry more than anyone else.

Her cigarette almost rendered to a stump, Dame Diane picked up the phone again and called the number of Harry Sullivan’s mobile, hoping that her old friend wasn’t in the _Diogenes Club_ where he wouldn’t take any calls.

To her relief, Harry answered the phone after the fourth ring. “Sullivan.”

“Harry, this is Diane. I just got a most… interesting call from my favourite nephew. Very mysterious and all. Do you happen to know what this is all about?”

There was a meaningful pause on the other end of the connection before Harry would reply to that.

“Yes, I do. In fact, the boy had sought me out just yesterday because of this. But…”

“… but you’re not entitled to tell me,” she finished for him.

“Afraid not,” he admitted ruefully. “Besides, even if I were at the liberty to discuss it, I wouldn’t do so on the phone. Not on _this_ phone anyway.”

Not on an unsecured line. She understood; and it worried her. A lot.

“Crickey, is it _that_ bad?”

“Not exactly bad, not as we understand it in our line of work,” her old friend replied carefully. “I say, _embarrassing_ would be a more fitting word for it. But your nephew will definitely need your support in this.”

“He shall have it; he always does, and you know that,” she said. “That’s why you sent him to me, wasn’t it? It _was_ you, right? He’d never come to me for help on his own. That stupid pride of his…”

“Well, he came to it honestly; Richard wasn’t any better,” her old friend pointed out. As I said, it is something… embarrassing. For him, the epitome of a British gentleman, even more embarrassing than it would be for most people. The power of education and all that. You can’t go to Eton and not be shaped by the experience.”

“It takes one to absorb it so completely, though,” she commented.

“That’s very true,” Harry agreed. “One might no longer believe everything one was taught as a youngster, but unconsciously it would still motivate one.”

“Says the man who has quite successfully freed himself from the restraints of convention,” she laughed. She could almost see Harry shrug.

“I think it takes our line of work to become a little unconventional, _despite_ our education,” he said. “I’m not complaining, though.”

“Yes, I imagine you wouldn’t," she replied. “Very well, I shall learn the murky details soon enough, I suppose. Will you be there, too?”

“Oh, no,” Harry said, almost scandalized. “This is a strictly family matter and will be treated as such. In all honesty, I don’t mind to keep out of it. Violet will _not_ be happy, and when she isn’t happy, others won’t be, either. Things can become very nasty, very quickly. Which is why I encouraged the boy to call you. You can handle Violet better than any of us.”

“I shall try my best,” she promised, and he laughed.

“Oh, I never doubted that for a moment. Any chance of you telling me about the outcome afterwards?”

“Surely, why not?” she liked the idea of being better informed than him for a change. “I’ll call you when it’s over. Make sure you’ll have a stiff drink or five. Dealing with an unhappy Violet is thirsty work.”

Harry promised that he would, then he thanked her, and she hung up. Then she put on her jacket and went down to the garage to check on her car.


	4. Family Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve borrowed the idea of the Holmes family wealth from the "Mycroft the Enigma" website. I modified it a bit to fit my story, of course, but credit shall be given where credit is due.
> 
> I’m fairly certain that all the legal considerations in this chapter could be discussed and proved false by someone who actually understands anything about UK law. But I needed this as a plot device, so please bear with me.

**CHAPTER 04 – FAMILY MEETINGS**

Dame Diane Holmes drove her shockingly yellow sports car – a classic Jaguar E-type that would put many modern automobiles to shame – to the Holmes country estate well in time on the next day. It wasn’t such a long drive, actually as the late medieval, Tudor style country house – unlike the Sherringfords’ manor house in Sussex – was barely outside London.

Of course, it _had_ been a proper country house in the Victorian era, but London in the 1850s had been about half its current size, speaking in geographical terms. The house had just been swallowed up by the sprawl of modern London… which development had greatly contributed to the Holmes family wealth.

Her great-grandfather had been the first to realize the profit one could make from property development. Instead of selling the land, Arthur Holmes had retained the freehold, simply leasing the land to the house owners for a yearly fee. As a result, his progeny was still accrousing payments from hundreds of leasehold properties every year.

Well, _Mycroft_ was, as he had inherited the bulk of the family wealth.

The other family heads between him and Arthur had also been shrewd enough to go into property development, both before and after the war. Therefore not only did the family still own the land (meaning Mycroft again, of course), they also owned swaths of suburban housing, upon which Richard Holmes, the one with the keenest business sense in the entire family, had built an extensive property portfolio.

This considerable wealth had been tripled by the current time, and Mycroft was the one controlling the portfolio. Richard hadn’t wanted anyone else – not even his wife or his younger son – to have direct access to it. Well, _nominally_ Dame Diane would have the right to control about twenty per cent of it, but she gladly let Mycroft – or rather the family accountant – take care of her share. She was a pilot and an engineer and an intelligence officer, not a businesswoman, and she trusted her older nephew unconditionally.

Besides, John Ellis was one of the best accountants the country could currently offer. With the help of a single temp, he managed to take care of the Holmes fortune perfectly well. Add Mycroft’s accurate understanding of legislation regarding investment, property development, business set-up and the likes, and the route of financial success was easily travelled.

The excellent condition of the Holmes ancestral home was proof enough for that, thought Dame Diane, while she pulled up her car to the front yard. Mycroft’s sleek black car was already parked there, and his driver, what was his name again, Smith or Jones or something like that, was polishing the already gleaming surface with a soft cloth… clearly a cheap excuse to spend some time with that little blonde tramp, the daughter of Violet’s cook.

Dame Diane shook her head in exasperation. Finding reliable personnel wasn’t easy, it truly wasn’t. Ms Tyler was an excellent cook, even if as dumb as brick, but her daughter was completely useless. Why, she’d even tired to flirt with the lawyer of the family who had a daughter of her own age!

At least Smith (or Jones?) had the presence of mind to notice the arrival of a respected family member. He put away his cloth and hurried up to the Jaguar to great Dame Diane politely.

“Shall I park in the car for you, ma’am?” he then offered.

Dame Diane gave him a quelling look.

“Young man, the day when I needed help to park my car properly would be the day of my death,” she said and parked her jewel expertly in the area selected for this very purpose.

She knew the young man only wanted to be helpful, but it irritated her nonetheless. She was still capable of parking an airplane on a handkerchief if she had to, thank you very much, and she could fix almost everything on said airplane… _or_ on her car. This was the only passion she and Richard had shared: their love for vintage cars and the joy of working on them. 

It saddened her greatly that neither of Richard’s son showed any interest in that area. Mycroft despised working with his hands instead of that brilliant mind of his, and Sherlock… Sherlock found anything that wouldn’t explode or dissolve the working surface or shatter glass hideously boring.

Dame Diane shook her head regretfully, got out of her car and went up the stairs leading to the front door of the house with the deadly grace of a woman who’d been taught to power-walk from a very tender age. She was well aware of the involuntary look of dear Mycroft’s young driver following her and had to force herself _not_ to shoot that little blonde… _person_ a triumphant look over her shoulder. 

Youth wasn’t the most important thing; besides, it faded a bit with every passing day. _Class_ , on the other hand, did _not_.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
She didn’t need to use her key. The front door was open as she knew it would be. And, as she knew she would, she was expected in the foyer by Francine Jones, the chatelaine of the Sherringford estate in Sussex – an uptight, critical and demanding woman, roughly a decade her junior.

Well, _chatelaine_ was way too grand a word for a glorified housekeeper; but Francine had been Violet’s confidante and closest companion since well before her marriage, and she’d never accept such a mundane description of her job.

She was a bitterly beautiful woman who looked like an exiled queen in her elegant, tailored charcoal grey jacket and pencil shirt. Her beige silk blouse contrasted nicely with her mahogany skin, and he had a regal posture that would have put a Duchess to shame.

Dame Diane suppressed the irrational feeling of inadequateness she always felt when facing Violet’s right-hand-woman. She never made much of fashion or clothing, although she always dressed according her social status, of course – that was a matter of principle. But it was a fact that certain servants, especially if employed by aristocratic families for a long time, tended to look more the aristocrats than their employers. Francine was the living proof of that.

“Good afternoon, Miss Diane,” she greeted the arriving guest politely but coolly. “Lady Violet is awaiting you. If you’d follow me…”

Dame Diane gritted her teeth behind a false, cold smile. She _hated_ being called _Miss_ Diane; as if her marital status had been more important than all her achievements. Especially by a housekeeper who was ten years younger than she. _And_ she hated the way Francine always emphasised the title of _Lady_ Violet; as if she wanted to remind everyone that the Sherringfords were peerage while the Holmeses were merely country gentry, and what a significant difference _that_ was. 

In _her_ eyes anyway.

Small wonder that poor Richard had always felt he had to prove himself to his wife and that dear Mycroft always tied himself into a knot to please his mother.

Perhaps Sherlock was right to ignore the whole circus.

“Thank you, Jones,” she replied coldly and stopped Francine from escorting her to the drawing room. “I think I can still find my way round the house. It is, after all, _my_ home, too. Or, at least, it used to be.”

It was probably childish to call Francine by her last name to emphasize her status. It was certainly a bit rude. But, to be honest, Dame Diane never liked Violet’s strange mix of personal slave and best friend; and she liked the way Francine behaved – as if _she_ ’d been the mistress of the house – even less.

She stormed by the momentarily stunned woman (really, Francine had grown way too comfortable in her privileged role as Violet’s executive) and went directly into the drawing room, which also served as the sitting room of the family whenever Violet deigned to come up from Sussex. Otherwise it was used by Mycroft, whenever the poor dear managed to escape London.

No matter its momentary use, it was a beautiful room. Its size and architecture clearly revealed it as a late remnant of a great hall, which weren’t particularly large in Tudor-style country houses anyway. Thank God, Mycroft had replaced the old furniture with more stylish pieces more than a decade ago, although why he’d kept that ridiculous, matching set of armoured “knights” on horseback in the opposite corners was beyond her understanding.

Those things were _hideous_ – not to mention that they took up a lot of space that could have been used more reasonably. No-one really knew where they’d come from in the first place – probably had been collected by Violet’s ancestors during the glory days of the British Empire, when it was accepted custom to plunder the provinces for collectibles. Unfortunately, no-one had the courage to throw them out.

Tradition could be a tiresome burden at times.

Well, Sherlock _had_ tried to set them on fire at the age of nine, if she remembered correctly. That had been the only time she’d regretted the failure of one of her nephew’s insane experiments. Sadly, those monstrosities were tough and Sherlock had been less experienced with such things at that time.

She briefly considered finding a reason Sherlock would find convincing to give it another try, but then rejected the idea. Mycroft, such a stickler to tradition, would not understand it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When she entered the room, she was mildly surprised to find Violet and Mycroft in the company of Dr. John Smith, the family lawyer, as well as Mr. Ellis, the chief accountant of the Holmes estate. Good Lord, this was apparently something serious!

“Aunt Diane!” Mycroft rose with a polite smile and came to kiss her hand in old-fashioned courtesy – a gesture he’d learned from Richard and _sometimes_ used, but only with family members. “So good of you to have come!”

She smiled and kissed him on the cheek, which he endured with just a bit of stiffness in his back.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” she scolded him gently. “You know you can always count on me.”

“Yes, I know, and I appreciate it very much,” Mycroft replied, his features easing in a barely noticeable way.

He was wearing his usual country wear: a herringbone tweed suit in brown, with a matching brown check-pattern shirt and a wool tie instead of his usual silk. That was as casual as he was able to dress. Still, it was good to see him in something more comfortable than his usual suits that were all tailored to impress.

Violet, who also rose with a cool smile to greet her sister-in-law, was dressed similarly, and it looked well on her, too. Of course, with the great shape in which she still was, she could have worn just about anything. She was tall and pale, like her sons, with sharp cheekbones and perfectly coiffed dark hair – it was obvious at first sight where Sherlock got his exotic good looks, while Mycroft came more after Richard.

Violet’s eyes were of the same shape and pale colour like those of her younger son – and the similarities didn’t stop there. She also shared Sherlock’s sharp with and even sharper tongue. She might not possess the same genius-level intelligence as both her sons, granted, but she was also mercilessly observant, blunt to the verge of rudeness and just a little bit judgemental.

Not really surprising that she’d choose somebody like Francine as her confidante, if one thought about it. They were a matching pair when it came to intimidating the living daylight out of people.

Having exchanged the usual detached, symbolic pecks about an inch above each other’s cheek, Dame Diane was offered a comfortable seat and served a cup of excellent tea by Violet’s maid. When the tea table was perfectly arranged and the maid had left, Violet turned to his son.

“Well, Mycroft, are you going to tell me why did I have to come up from Sussex for this little get-together? You _are_ aware of the fact that I had to abandon a great deal of important social obligations, aren’t you?”

“I know, Mummy, and I’m truly sorry,” Mycroft replied with a pained smile. “Unfortunately, this is a rather… unexpected turn of events; one that I couldn’t foresee. Otherwise I’d have given you ample forewarning, as always.”

“If it’s so important, why isn’t your brother here?” Violet demanded.

Mycroft’s eyes became ice cold in an instant.

“Because it’s none of his business,” he said evenly, clearly holding back his irritation that his mother would miss _Sherlock_ , of all people. Sherlock, who hadn’t cared about his family since the age of nine or ten.

“But it’s _Diane_ ’s business, and Dr. Smith’s, and that of Mr Ellis?” Violet asked, disbelief clearly written in her patrician features.

“Yes,” Mycroft paused, and Dame Diane could practically smell the bombshell about to be dropped.

She was a pilot, after all.

“It _is_ their business, because it has something to do with my inheritance,” Mycroft continued.

Still not the bombshell, then.

John Smith, currently the senior partner of _Smith, Smith & Smith_, a renowned law firm that had dealt with the legal issues of the Holmes family since Queen Victoria’s times, raised an inquisitive forefinger. He was roughly of Mycroft’s age but appeared much younger, due to his boyish face that was full of almost manic energy and his spiky hair that seemed to have a will of its own.

“Excuse me, Mr Holmes,” he said, “but I thought the issues of your inheritance had been dealt with right after your father’s death.”

“That is correct,” Mycroft replied. “However, until a few weeks ago I believed that I wouldn’t have an heir. I know now that I was mistaken.”

The silence following his words was positively deafening. Everyone in the drawing room was petrified with shock. Mr Ellis even stopped breathing, his face taking on a slightly purple hue from the acute lack of oxygen.

Dame Diane was the first to react. Not that she’d have any helpful comment to make, but she wanted to firmly take Mycroft’s side before the others would begin to tear him to pieces.

“That was… unexpected,” she said softly.

Mycroft nodded, forcing himself to smile, no matter how false and pained that smile turned out.

“That it was… for me, too,” he admitted.

“Oh!” the lawyer’s eyes suddenly lit up with realization. “The package we were asked to forward to you!”

Mycroft nodded again. “Yes, those were the documents proving the child’s existence.”

“Did they appear to be genuine?” Dr. Smith asked doubtfully.

“Oh, yes,” Mycroft replied, his smile turning a little grim. “I put my best people on the case. Believe me, they _are_ genuine.”

The lawyer accepted that with a simple nod. He knew – they _all_ knew – that Mycroft’s people didn’t make mistakes. Not in such an easy matter anyway.

“So, this child…” he began uncertainly.

“It’s a boy, or rather a young man, nineteen years old, currently a student at London University,” Mycroft interrupted. “Quite a surprise indeed, considering that I never knew about his existence.”

Violet, in the meantime, recovered from her shock and began to put two and two together. She might not be as blazingly intelligent as her sons – who was, really? – but she was very good at recognizing patterns and connecting the dots, and that was exactly what she was doing at the moment.

“If the boy is nineteen, then he must have been conceived roughly twenty years ago,” she thought out loud. “At the same time when you had that regrettable affair with some Welsh girl, if I remember correctly. Richard was _not_ pleased.”

“Father was _never_ pleased with us, no matter how hard we tried to please him,” Mycroft replied dryly. “Sometimes I wonder if Sherlock wasn’t right when he flat our refused to try rising to Father’s expectations. He spared himself a great deal of frustration.”

Dame Diane’s heart went out to her nephew. Yes, Richard had always been very hard on his boys. Especially on Mycroft, as he’d given up on Sherlock rather quickly, declaring him a genetic failure. But Mycroft… Mycroft always had to be the perfect son. Richard’s consolation prize for Sherlock.

Small wonder that the _regrettable affair_ resulting in the birth of his previously unknown son had been the _only_ affair that he’d had in his entire life. At least as far as Dame Diane knew, and she could be reasonably certain that she knew everything that was there to know about Mycroft’s nonexistent private life.

A private life that was usually centered on keeping Sherlock safe anyway.

But that was neither here nor there, she reminded herself sternly, trying to focus her attention on the actual events currently taking place again.

“May I take a look at the documents?” Dr. Smith asked, and Mycroft handed him the papers without a comment.

The lawyer put on his ugly, bone-rimmed glasses and studied the documents very carefully. Then he sighed and shook his head.

“Well of course this declaration of the adoptive parents isn’t legally binding,” he said. “They were not empowered to make that decision for a baby; and if the boy could prove his true origins, he’d be entitled to his inheritance… or at least part of it. A DNA-test might be necessary, just to check the basic facts.”

“It’s already been taken care of,” Mycroft replied. “The results came back just two days ago. There’s no doubt: I _am_ the boy’s biological father. Genetically spoken, he _is_ a Holmes.”

“But genetics alone don’t make an English gentleman, do they?” Violet commented. “The boy’s half-Welsh to begin with, coming from an unsuitable family. Do you truly expect him to find his place within our family?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I cannot answer that question, Mummy… not yet. I have my doubts, too, which is why I’ve put the boy under Grade Two surveillance. We need to know who he is and what is he like before I’d decide what to do about him.”

“You mean whether to acknowledge him or not,” his mother said.

Mycroft nodded. “Exactly. But I ask you to consider this: whatever his origins – which, admittedly, aren’t what you or Father would probably wish for – he is the only grandchild you’ll ever have out of me. As for Sherlock, I wouldn’t put my hopes too high in this particular area, either.”

The air practically froze between the two of them, but Dame Diane inwardly applauded her nephew. This was the first time (that she knew of anyway) that Mycroft would stand up to his mother… to either of his parents, actually, save for the decision to become a civil servant. Whether it was mere exasperation or was he truly interested in his newly discovered son remained to be seen. But she was determined to support any decision he might make.

Besides, she was curious about the boy, too.

“Do you think the boy’s been told the truth about his parentage?” she asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Apparently, he received a similar package from _Cooper & Williams_, right after his adoptive father’s death. That must have been approximately a month ago.”

“And he hasn’t sought contact yet?” she was mildly surprised. Learning that his real father was a rich and influential man should have interested someone this young and relatively penniless. “Does he actually know who you are?”

“I believe he does,” Mycroft replied. “I had _Cooper & Williams_ thoroughly checked, and it seems that Mr. Williams, the senior partner, has made discrete inquiries about me on a semi-regular basis a few years ago. I assume he did it on behalf of Mr. Jones.”

“And yet they’ve never approached you,” the lawyer said thoughtfully. “Neither the father, nor the son.”

“Uncle and nephew, actually,” Mycroft corrected absent-mindedly. “Mr. Jones is – _was_ – the brother of my… well, my ex-affair.”

He swallowed hard, as if the admission had been difficult for him. It probably was; such things, although they did happen sometimes, were heavily frowned upon in the Holmes family.

“But no, they never approached me in any way… until now,” he continued. “Not until Mr. Jones died. I must assume that he wanted to make sure that the boy wasn’t left alone.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” the lawyer reminded him. “Legally, he’s the son of Mr. Jones; your name doesn’t even stand in the birth certificate. The boy could try to go to court with the results of the DNA-test, of course, but we do have the means – _you_ do have the means – to nip the whole thing in the bud.”

“I know that,” Mycroft replied dryly. “I’m just trying to decide if that’s what I truly want to do.”

“The boy might have something to say about it, too,” Mr. Ellis said quietly, speaking for the first time.

The lawyer shrugged. “Not really, no. His adoptive parents clearly wanted him to grow up in their own social circles; and since Mr. Holmes wasn’t even told about his existence, he isn’t legally or morally bound to support him. Especially as the boy’s already of age and clearly capable of taking care of himself.”

“I don’t know what’s legally binding and what isn’t,” Mr. Ellis replied slowly. “Al I know is that I’d give anything – anything at all – if I could have my son back. Sometimes it isn’t about what the letter of the law says. Sometimes it’s simply about doing the right thing… even if it’s uncomfortable.”

Long silence followed his words. Everyone knew that Alan Ellis, the accountant’s only son, had died from a degenerative illness at a very young age, looking like a broken old man by the time he’d given up the fight. This was an argument that would be hard to counter; especially seeing Mr. Ellis’ inconsolable grief coming to the surface for a moment.

“Yes, but what _is_ the right thing for the boy?” Dame Diane finally asked softly. “What would be more beneficial for him – who is, after all, innocent in becoming an inconvenience for our family? To be left in his, let’s say, natural environment, knowing that he’s probably the last of the Holmeses? Or removing him from his element, trying to adapt him to a life that will always remain alien for him? No matter what his existence means for us, we must take his interests into consideration.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mycroft said. “Which is why I’ve decided to wait and watch him for the time being.”

“But what if he decided to make his move in the meantime?” the lawyer asked in concern. “He could cause a great deal of trouble, which could lead to really bad press, both for Mr. Holmes in person and for the entire family.”

Mycroft shrugged. “He hasn’t, so far, which either means that he’s not interested – or that he’s still digesting the shock. Speaking of which,” he glanced at his mother warily, “you seem to have overcome your shock surprisingly soon, Mummy.”

Violet seemed surprisingly calm indeed. “Such things happen,” she replied with a shrug of her own. “Young people tend to make foolish choices, especially if they know their parents wouldn’t approve. I’d have preferred if you’d been more careful in your youth, Mycroft, but what’s done is done. And, as it has repeatedly been stated, that boy _is_ a Holmes… most likely the last one. We, as a family, do have an obligation towards our own.”

“So you’d be willing to accept him?” Mycroft tried to clarify.

“I’d like to learn more about him,” his mother corrected. “Do you have any pictures?”

Mycroft selected from the file the photos he found best and handed them his mother. “I apologise for the quality. The most recent ones had been extracted from the CCTV tapes.”

Violet studies the photos thoroughly. “He doesn’t look like you at all,” she then said, a little disappointed, before passing them to Dame Diane. “He’s a bit on the chubby side, though.”

Mycroft suppressed a sigh with visible effort. “He comes very much after his birth mother. But the DNA does not lie. He _is_ my son.”

Dame Diane looked at the pictures with keen interest. The boy seemed very young, his round face still soft like that of a child, but amply supplied with good, solid Welsh bones. He had an adorable button nose and stormy blue eyes – not the pale, silvery grey-blue of Violet or Sherlock, but the warm, deep blue of the summer sky.

He seemed to have the proper Holmesian height, compared with other, random people on the same photos, but was more broadly built than either Mycroft or Sherlock. _Not_ chubby, though, no matter how Violet’s prejudiced eyes would see anyone but a skeleton. In fact, he seemed to have inherited Richard’s build… unless it was a Welsh thing, too.

“He certainly lacks the pointy Holmes nose,” Dame Diane commented, smiling. “But other than that, he’s nicely made. You say he’s a student?”

Mycroft nodded, grateful to discuss the more important facts about his unknown son. “He’s just started studying economics and EDP at the _London School of Economics_.”

“Not a bad choice for a Holmes; especially if he’d want to follow you into Civil Service,” Dame Diane said. “No scientific interests then, hmmm? Well, that’s a shame.”

“I’m not really sure,” Mycroft admitted. “Perhaps he isn’t yet, either. Well, he can always switch disciplines later.”

“But how can he afford his study fee to begin with?” the lawyer asked. “He cannot have inherited much from his adoptive father.”

“He hasn’t,” Mycroft sighed. “In the last seven years, Mr. Jones made barely enough to keep their home… and nurture his increasingly worsening drinking habit. Ianto has been working since the age of sixteen to keep himself fed and clothed. Mostly in coffee shops, it appears.”

“ _Coffee_ shops,” Violet repeated with faint disdain. “A Holmes, working in _coffee_ shops. What has this world come to?”

“There’s nothing wrong with honest work,” Dame Diane, as the actual Holmes of her generation – and the one who, too, had worked hard all her life to achieve her rank and place in the RAF and later in the Secret Service – said coolly. “Of course, if dear Mycroft decides to acknowledge the boy, jobs like that won’t be acceptable any longer. But I for my part find it rather good that the boy’s learned early on to fend for himself.”

“Which he’ll have to keep doing if Mr. Holmes _doesn’t_ acknowledge him,” the lawyer added. “A good thing, indeed, that he’s used to it.”

Dame Diane turned to her favourite nephew. “Of course, if you do claim the boy, Mycroft dear, he’ll have a great deal to learn. The culture shock will be considerable; I don’t think he’d be able to accept his place as your heir right away.”

“Why do I have the impression that you already have a nefarious idea about that, Aunt Diane?” Mycroft asked with a faint smile.

Dame Diane grinned at him. “Perhaps because you know me too well, my dear?”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allowed, “and it makes me eternally grateful that you’re on our side. So, you’ve got a suggestion?”

Dame Diane nodded. “As a matter of fact, I do. I think you need to give the boy the chance to learn more about the life of our family; what it would mean to be your heir. A… trial period of adapting, I’d say, with no strings attached. You cannot _force_ him to become a Holmes, after all. Not if he isn’t willing.”

“That sounds reasonable,” Mycroft said thoughtfully. “Have you already figured out _how_ I’m supposed to do it?”

Dame Diane shrugged. “Why don’t you offer him a job? One in which he’d have to interact with the family on a regular basis, without actually being part of it yet?”

“Like a personal secretary or a butler?” the lawyer suggested. “That could actually work.”

“I already have a valet,” Mycroft pointed out dryly. “And I doubt that a nineteen-year-old, related to us or not, would consider this a tempting offer.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear,” Dame Diane rolled her eyes. “Wilf is _ancient_ ; he barely leaves the _Diogenes Club_ in these days and is glad if he manages to prepare your tea. You need somebody young and dynamic to deal with your phone calls, your correspondence and your personal issues.”

“Thank you, Aunt Diane, but I already have the perfect PA for that,” Mycroft replied.

That earned him another eyeroll from his loving aunt.

“Yes, yes, she-of-the-many-names, we all know her,” she said impatiently. “Are you telling me that she’s got the right manners to deal with the family… or with important guests, where protocol could be a deciding factor?”

“Do you think the boy has them?” Mycroft asked back, his doubt evident.

Dame Diane shrugged again. “Well, you won’t know until you gave it a try, shall you?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
At the same time, Ianto had just begun his shift at _Angelo’s_ – with cleaning the coffee machine thoroughly, Sergio from the morning shift – a long-haired Italian guest student who worked here for the same reason as Ianto himself – could make a mean cup of espresso but, in Ianto’s opinion, he didn’t treat the Fraema with the necessary respect. A classic like that ought to be treated like a lady, and Sergio clearly had no idea how to treat a lady. A shame, really.

He had just finished polishing the copper and chrome components of the machine, when the front door was flung open and in walked the strangest man he’d ever met. Which, given old Mr. Llewellyn’s usual clientele, was saying a _lot_. 

The man was ridiculously tall, ridiculously thin, wearing an expensive Belstaff greatcoat over an equally extensive, tailored Spencer Hart suit, Ianto’s mind supplied the data automatically, and a dark blue scarf looped around his neck. His thin, pale face was dominated by a pair of strangely luminous, slanted silver-grey eyes under thick, arched eyebrows, and framed with lush, dark curls.

He strode into the restaurant as if he’d owned the place, and Angelo greeted him with matching reverence.

“Sherlock!” he crowed happily and hugged the younger man, who endured it with a somewhat pained expression. Knowing Angelo’s bear hugs of affection, it was probably understandable.

Then Angelo turned to Ianto, still holding the younger man’s shoulders.

“This man,” he declared, “gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants, for free. I owe him _everything_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Angelo!” the man whose name was apparently Sherlock – and what kind of name was _that_ anyway? – replied with a long-suffering sigh. “Even the police, incompetent as they are, would have eventually realized that you might be a car-jacker but you aren’t a serial killer.”

Based on Angelo’s general looks, Ianto wouldn’t have sworn that by first sight; although he’d learned better by now. Angelo might look like some lower-class mafia boss, but he was basically harmless.

“If not for this man,” Angelo continued, “I’d have gone to prison.”

One of those arched eyebrows rose even higher. “You _did_ go to prison,” Sherlock pointed out, his deep, rumbling voice – quite a surprise coming from such a narrow frame – darkly amused.

Ianto already knew that, from Billy the waiter. But he also knew that a short sentence for car-jacking was a very different thing from a lifelong one for triple murder. Which Angelo had supposedly been accused with for a while. Small wonder that he was so grateful for the help of this man… whoever he might be.

Said man now decided that he needed the table right at the shop window, and Angelo hurriedly complimented the current occupant of that particular table over to a different one. Sherlock strode over to the table like somebody entitled to have people jump at his every whim, took off his coat and his scarf and positioned himself at the table so that he’d have undisturbed view on the street. Angelo kept fussing over him.

“Everything on the menu… everything you want, I’ll cook you myself,” he promised, and Ianto’s own eyebrow went up a millimetre or two in surprise. 

As much as Angelo loved and valued his clientele, he rarely prepared their meals with his own two hands. There was no need for that – he had taught his chef well. Only a selected few were treated that way, or so the waiters said. Until today, Ianto hadn’t seen any of those selected few.

“I’m fine for a bit,” Sherlock replied. “Just a coffee for now, please.”

“Oooh… of course,” Angelo hurried over to Ianto’s counter and told him in a conspiratory manner. “Sherlock’s on a _case_. Bad news for bad people.”

“Is he a detective or something?” Ianto asked in suspicion, thinking that perhaps his unknown father had set the eccentric man on his case.

“ _Consulting detective_ ,” Angelo told him in a dramatic whisper. “When the police can’t solve a case, they consult _him_.”

Which explained how Sherlock could have cleared Angelo from the triple murder suspicion. But it didn’t explain what the man was doing here. Unless Angelo was one of his informants, of course.

“Quick,” Angelo said. “Make him a coffee; he doesn’t eat at all when on a case – says it’s not good for thinking – but he needs coffee to focus.”

“How does he takes his, then?” Ianto asked. 

Angelo winked at him. “What do you think?”

Ianto watched for a moment the detective, who was looking out of the shop window, drumming with his fingers on the tabletop impatiently. It was a challenge, for sure… but not one he couldn’t have risen to.

“Double espresso, black, two sugar,” he decided, and Angelo’s grin grew from ear to ear.

“I knew you’d figure out,” he said with almost proprietary pride. “You’re good with people. Almost as good as Sherlock is with cases.”

Ianto shrugged. “I’m nothing special, Angelo. I just seem to know how people like their coffee. It’s an instinct.”

“It’s a _gift_ ,” Angelo insisted. “I told Sherlock about you. He didn’t believe me. Now, go and bring him his coffee and don’t be surprised if he tells you the entire story of your life. He’s like that with everyone.”

Ianto tried to hide the panic that possibility induced in him. The last thing he needed was some mad genius to read him like an open book.

Still, he couldn’t simply refuse to serve coffee _any_ customer, least one whom his boss obviously held in such high esteem. He schooled his face to his best bland expression – a talent he’d perfected by dealing with Mr. Llewellyn’s often cantankerous clientele – and slid the silver tray with the coffee cup, the tiny jug of cream and the small glass of water before the dark-haired man.

“Your coffee, sir,” he murmured.

Sherlock reached for the cup without actually looking at it and took a sip from the coffee, his eyes firmly on the busy street.

Not for very long, though. As soon as the flavour of the hot black liquid hit his taste buds, he reacted exactly the same way every single one of Ianto’s new customers had done so far: with open, unmistakable awe.

“Oh!” he murmured. “Oh, brilliant!” then he turned around to look at Ianto, _really_ look at him for the first time. “Who are you?”

“I’m the new barista, sir,” Ianto replied with his best I’m-talking-to-an-idiot smile.

Those strangely transparent eyes focused at him, dissected him and analysed the pieces in less than ten seconds. “You’re not Italian…”

Ianto rolled his eyes. With his lilting Welsh accent, deducing _that_ didn’t require a rocket scientist. But Angelo’s resident mad genius wasn’t done with him yet.

“Welsh, of course,” he murmured. “Recently moved to London, still finding your way here, hence the hideous outfit. You’re desperately trying to blend in and actually doing a fairly good job of hiding that you’re broke.”

“I’m not broke,” Ianto corrected coolly. “It’s not a shame to work for one’s living; although someone born to old money would probably find it difficult to believe.”

That earned him a thin, arrogant smile. “So you think I’m rich?”

“I think you’re used to a certain life standard,” Ianto replied. “I recognize a Spencer Hart suit and a dress shirt when I see one, and you wear them like somebody used to them and comfortable with them. You also seem to be used to people jumping at your every whim – in fact, you _expect_ them to do so – which means that you grew up in a house with a large enough staff.”

There was genuine amusement in those pale eyes by then.

“Go on,” Sherlock encouraged.

Ianto shrugged. “Well, I know from Angelo that you’re some sort of detective who works with the police, but beyond that, everything else would be guesswork without further data.”

“That is a pathetic attempt to avoid failure,” Sherlock declared in a haughty manner.

“Perhaps,” Ianto replied amiably. “But I’m just a pathetic coffee boy with limited observation skills. We can’t all be mad geniuses, can we?”

Which was an outright lie, of course. His observation skills were well above the average; paired with a photographic memory, it made him one of the most observant people in whichever company he happened to be. But that wasn’t something he would reveal to a stranger, no matter what Angelo might think about the man.

“Besides,” he added, “I have to work here. So, if you’ll excuse me, sir…”

But the detective wasn’t listening to him anymore. Instead, he was staring out of the shop window with almost frightening intensity.

“Oh!” he suddenly exclaimed and jumped to his feet. “Angelo, gotta dash,” he called back over his shoulder. “Call Lestrade and tell him that if the brother of the suspect has a green ladder, he’ll have to arrest the brother.”

And off he was, leaving Ianto wondering who the hell Lestrade might be.

“That’s Sherlock,” Angelo announced with almost fatherly pride. “He always gets them.”


	5. Interlude #1 - A Heart to Heart with Auntie Di

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Mycroft’s orientation is based on Sherlock’s somewhat mean joke in “A Scandal in Belgravia”. If you’re a fan, you know which one I mean.

**INTERLUDE – A HEART TO HEART WITH AUNTIE DI**

When the incredibly uncomfortable family meeting was finally over, Mycroft escorted his aunt to her car.

“Are you sure you don’t want to stay the night, Auntie Di?” he asked in dutiful concern. “It’s rather late; it will be dark within the hour.”

Dame Diane shook her head.

“No, my dear boy. I’d rather drive through London during the rush hour than be subjected to watching the sanctimonious face of Francine longer than absolutely necessary. How can you bear her invade your home is beyond me.”

Mycroft shrugged. “Well, I can hardly forbid her to come, can I? Mummy likes her; she’s her only company in Sussex. And considering how rarely I have the time to visit her, I ought to be grateful that she has _someone_ to keep her company. Besides, I need to stay on a marginally friendly basis with Francine. I don’t want to lose Letitia as a co-worker.”

Dame Diane nodded. Francine’s elder daughter, who’d worked as Mycroft’s PR chief for some years by now, was a very competent young woman: intelligent, sharp-witted, well-mannered, smooth and ruthless. _And_ she was beautiful, which always proved an advantage in her line of work.

There was only one problem with her…

“You know, of course, that she has a mad crush on you,” Dame Diane told her nephew.

Mycroft sighed. “Of course. I’m trying _not_ to encourage her, without making her feel unwanted. She’s too valuable as an employee.”

“You could tell her the truth, you know,” Dame Diane suggested. “I think she can bear it. And it would be better than the uncertainty.”

Mycroft raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “The truth, Auntie Di?”

His aunt made a rather un-ladylike snort that brought back pleasant childhood memories. The few really pleasant ones were always connected to her. 

“Oh, for God’s sake, boy,” she said, “do you really think I wouldn’t know what you meant when you told Violet that the Welsh kid will be the only grandchild she’d ever get out of you? It always amazed me how blind your parents could be towards certain facts in your life. I’ve known that you walked the other side of the street since you turned twelve.”

Mycroft gave her one of his pinched smiles.

“It’s ironic, isn’t it?” he said. “When Father came to Oxford in a rush, hell-bent to end my _unfortunate affair with the most unsuitable girl possible_ , he had no idea that he was successfully terminating my last, desperate effort to become what he considered _normal_.”

“You mean to lead a life against your basic instincts,” Dame Diane corrected.

Mycroft nodded. “I wasn’t _in love_ with Briony – I doubt very much that I’m capable of feeling like that at all – but I liked her enough to give it a try. To fit the norms by which young men of my social status are judged. She was clever, funny and pretty, and she seemed to like me… it wasn’t that bad, really.”

“It just wasn’t what you really needed,” Dame Diane said quietly.

“We cannot always have everything what we need,” Mycroft replied with a shrug. “I’ve long accepted that some aspects of my life will remain unfulfilled. So be it. I’ve got enough other things to occupy my mind and satisfy my other needs.”

Dame Diane shook her head sympathetically. “Career is a cold bedfellow, my dear boy.”

“It always seemed to work for you,” Mycroft pointed out. She laughed.

“Yes, but I’ve always been a career woman, and it’s expected from a career woman to be a sad and lonely one with no love life,” her eyes twinkled with mischief. “A pretence easily kept up, while I had my fun behind the smoke curtain. _Lots_ of fun, my boy. Can you say the same about yourself?”

“No,” Mycroft admitted. “It’s more complicated if you’re drawn to your own gender. The danger to get blackmailed into something you’d never do on your own volition is too grave. The danger to destroy your career if you _don’t_ give in to blackmail is equally grave. A lustful roll in the hay just isn’t worth it.”

Dame Diane rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t suggesting that you should cruise in gay bars and pick up random bed partners, my boy. You’ve got the perfect opportunity to deal with your needs in your own house. Why, do you think, have I hunted down Jack to work for you?”

“Captain Harkness?” Mycroft frowned. 

True, his chief of security had come to work for him due to Dame Diane’s recommendation, but he did have the right credentials, being an ex-CIA field agent and a trained pilot. Born in Scotland, raised and trained in the USA, he’d apparently left the Firm due to personal differences – which, as some in-depth research had revealed meant that he’d been involved with too many people of both genders. In short, he was a Casanova, and some of his narrow-minded bosses had been unable to tolerate his escapades. They’d rather let a highly competent agent go. 

The idiots. But their loss was Mycroft’s gain, wasn’t it?

“I used to work with Jack on joint operations,” Dame Diane explained. “I knew exactly what kind of man he was. And I thought he’d be exactly what you needed… on several different ways. I’m sure he’s been shamelessly flirting with you ever since you hired him; that’s what he does. But I hoped you’d realize the opportunity his continued presence would offer to you.”

“What opportunity?” it was now Mycroft’s turn to snort. “To get a pity fuck from my own chief of security? You’ve seen the man, Auntie – he looks like a film star. Do you really think he’d be interested in me without the power of my position?”

His aunt gave him an amused look. “That’s what you think? That he’d be drawn to your power? Or do you think he was sleeping with _me_ out of pity?”

It didn’t happen often that the ability of speech would abandon Mycroft Holmes. This was one of those rare occasions. It took him almost a full minute to recover from his shock.

“ _You_?” he said incredulously when he was capable of doing so again. “ _You_ slept with Harkness?”

His aunt grinned in a way that would have been considered X-rated in a film or TV-show.

“Granted, it was more than a decade ago, but yeah, we had a short but torrid affair,” she said. “What are you so surprised? I told you I had lots of fun behind the scenes. With Jack, more fun than with anyone else. He is – _was_ – a very skilled and considerate lover. _And_ he can’t be bothered by conventional boundaries. I like that in a man.”

“I presume you would,” Mycroft murmured. 

His aunt was unconventional on her best days; downright wild on the rest of them, although she was also very skilled at covering her tracks, so that she’d been able to avoid any scandals so far. Still, the idea that she’d have an affair with a man twenty years her junior while nearing sixty was one that he had to digest for a while.

And Harkness, with his boyish good looks, incredibly blue eyes, thousand megawatt grin and perfectly trained body, having had an affair with his aunt of all people! Even if it had been over ten years ago! Even though Aunt Diane still looked great!

His aunt patted him on the arm and offered him a cigarette. “Don’t be so shocked, dear! I know it’s not easy to imagine your elders have sex – and enjoying it! – but we’re all made of flesh and blood. Even you. Think about it.”

Giving him a peck on the cheek, she climbed into her car and drove away, leaving him behind, alone in front of the house to smoke his cigarette.

As soon as she was out of his eyesight, however, she pulled over to the roadside and took out her phone.

“You shouldn’t wait for him to take the initiative,” she told the man who picked up her call. “He won’t do that. Be creative; I know you have it in you. And remember: if you hurt him, I’ll kill you. Slowly and very, very painfully.”


	6. Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the idea about Mycroft’s eating disorder isn’t an entirely original one. But it fits the frame of this story, so I decided to use it.

**CHAPTER 05 – ENCOUNTERS**

“Sir, the surveillance team at _Angelo’s_ reports that your brother’s made contact with young Mr. Jones.

Mycroft looked up from his modest lunch – he was back to his more rigorous diet phase – and set aside his fork in surprise. While it was inevitable that the two would bump into each other eventually, given how much Sherlock frequented the place, he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.

“When did _that_ happen?” he asked.

“Two days ago, while you were having that family meeting in the country house,” Quilla slid a photo, clearly extracted from a CCTV camera, before him.

The photo showed Sherlock at _Angelo’s_ , giving Ianto that intense look as always when launching into a deduction. Ianto, for his part, didn’t seem all too distressed. He had a bland, polite smile plastered upon his face and appeared to be listening to Sherlock with patient, albeit probably fake interest.

“Do we have audio?” Mycroft asked, suddenly very curious how much Sherlock might have figured out by simply meeting Ianto.

Quilla gave him a wounded look and wordlessly switched her BlackBerry to playback. Those tiny loudspeakers of the phone did a surprisingly good job.

Mycroft listened to the conversation with avid interest, this being the first time that he actually got to hear the voice of his son. The soft Welsh lilt of that voice unexpectedly warmed his heart, although he did his level best _not_ to show it because that was not something a Holmes would admit.

He might try to explain it away with the argument that the boy’s voice remained him of Briony’s, but the sad truth was, he couldn’t even remember Briony’s voice anymore. Or her face. Or anything else, save for those blue eyes of hers. Eyes that her son had apparently inherited.

They had only been together for six months, after all, before the wrath of Richard Holmes would descend upon his firstborn.

No, that youthful voice had an attraction of its own. Not to mention the surprising ease with which Ianto deflected Sherlock’s attempts to dissect him mentally.

“Interesting,” Mycroft commented. “Usually Sherlock is much better at reading people. Either he was extremely distracted by the case he was working at, or that young man is very good at hiding.”

“Probably both, “Quilla replied thoughtfully. “Watch the body language, sir; on the surface, it shows nothing but polite disinterest. But if you take a closer look at it, it works like a full body armour. Presumably a defence mechanism he’s developed growing up as the son of a habitual drinker. Such children learn at a very young age how to shroud their true feelings.”

Mycroft nodded slowly. It made sense; but that wasn’t surprising. Quilla had been one of the best behaviour analysts of MI5 before he’d have her transferred to his personal staff – a decision to which he still congratulated himself on the daily basis.

“Have you reached Dr. Howarth?” he then asked.

He wanted to speak to Ianto’s EDP-professor – who’d also happened to be running the archives of the Torchwood Institute single-handedly for longer than he’d been alive – about the boy’s future. Aunt Diane’s idea to offer Ianto a job first had been a sound one, but Mycroft didn’t want his son to have to deal with the rest of the family from the position of a servant. Not even if he’d decide _against_ acknowledging him.

Making him the assistant of Rupert Howarth at Torchwood Tower, though, and eventually training him to take over when Howarth returned, did have its promises. Assuming that the boy _did_ have the right abilities for the job, of course.

“Mr Howarth is willing to meet you in the _Strangers’ Room_ tonight, if it’s all right with you, sir,” Quilla replied.

Mycroft allowed himself a good-natured eyeroll. Strictly spoken, Rupert Howarth was his employee and only got his job at University due to Mycroft’s influence. Consequently, if Mycroft snapped his fingers, Howarth had to jump. It was that simple.

On the other hand, the old man had been a close associate of his father’s, and absolutely irreplaceable at Torchwood Tower. So Mycroft always treated him with the utmost courtesy.

The older Howarth got, however – and he _was_ in his early sixties already – the more important it became that he’d train his potential follower. Having that post under the control of a Holmes, even one born out of wedlock, would be beneficial for the Institute.

Being a scientist himself, Richard Holmes had always had extensive and immediate knowledge of all projects running in the Institute simultaneously at any given time. Without a proper scientific background, Mycroft couldn’t have that kind of control; and besides, his job didn’t allow him to focus on the Institute full time.

Sherlock would have been ideal for that sort of work – _if_ he had the patience to deal with people less brilliant than himself. Which, unfortunately, he did not. So Mycroft had hired Yvonne Hartmann who, while not a scientist either, had a fairly good understanding of basic scientific procedures and was a gifted corporate executive… not to mention very good with people. 

That had worked out better than expected, but Mycroft would have preferred if the family could be more directly involved with the daily business of the Institute. Ianto’s chosen field of studies would come in handy; and Howarth could teach him all the little – or not so little – tricks no university would be able to teach.

“Tell Mr Howarth that I’ll meet him in the _Club_ at 18:30, assuming no international crisis arises in the meantime,” Mycroft instructed his assistant. “I’m off to meet Commodore Sullivan at Thames House now. Filter my messages and only let through those on the usual emergency lists.”

He rose from his seat but was stopped by Quilla’s disapproving look.

“What is it?” he asked, irritated by the delay.

“Your lunch, sir,” she waved in he direction of then nearly full plate of salad. “You’ve barely eaten any of it.”

Mycroft pulled a face. “Would _you_ like to eat _that_?”

“No,” she admitted honestly; she hated health food with a passion. “But since that’s all you’ve been willing to eat in the last two days…”

Mycroft fell her in the word, really angry now. “Mind your own business!”

“That’s what I’m doing, sir,” she replied, unimpressed by his quick flash of temper. “It is my business to see that you eat… well, not _properly_ , since you haven’t done that for a long time, certainly not since I’ve been working for you, but at least eat _something_ every day. Oh, and I took the liberty of throwing out those diet pills.”

Mycroft glared at her incredulously. “You did _what_?”

“I’ve checked with Dr. Harper, and he says he hasn’t subscribed them for you,” she answered, completely unfazed by his fury. “So I checked your online shopping records and guess what? I found out that you’d got them via Internet. Really, sir, a man of such outstanding intelligence like you how can risk his health taking some uncontrolled substance imported from a shady source in Malaysia or wherever? I’m sure if I had these pills analysed, the results would turn out less than encouraging.”

“I needed to do something,” Mycroft admitted reluctantly. “I… I had a relapse after our family get-together.”

“What kind of relapse?” she asked, not unkindly. 

Aside from Dr. Harper, she was the only one who knew about his eating disorder. And as she’d reminded him earlier, it was part of her duties to help him keeping it under control.

“Cake attack,” Mycroft muttered, ashamed. He still hadn’t truly accepted that an eating disorder was a genuine illness rather than a hideous lack of willpower.

“How many pieces?” she insisted.

She hated humiliating him for something he couldn’t help, but it was necessary that she knew. She kept the records about his relapses and their nature, accessible for Dr. Harper only. Mycroft refused to establish eye contact.

“Four,” he murmured. “Four bloody pieces of double chocolate cake. Are you happy now?”

She ignored the tantrum. “Did you lose them again?”

“Half an hour later,” he replied, grimacing with the disgusting memory.

She nodded in understanding. His yo-yoing weight problem was a complex illness that was hard to control, mostly because it was based on a psychological need for comfort, rooted very deeply in an unhappy childhood. He _needed_ the sweets and other sort of comfort food to be able to deal with emotional stress, caused nine times out of ten by his family.

But it had been so deeply ingrained into him that putting on weight was wrong that he took extreme measures to avoid it. As he was ‘whippet thin’, as old Wilf liked to put it, outsiders wouldn’t even spot the problem. Quilla knew better. She also knew how much strain those often brutal methods put on his system – as if work-related stress and the kind caused by family, especially that wayward brother of his, hadn’t been enough.

She suppressed a sigh, forcing herself to remain professional. Depending on dubious diet pills was bad enough, but he hadn’t had a bulimic episode for _months_. It must have been one hell of a family reunion, if it caused such a serious relapse.

And he’d been doing so well!

“All right,” she said, radiating calm professionalism. “That was a setback, not the end of the world,” she fished one of the specially made power bars out of her handbag. “Have one of these, sir. You must eat _something_ , or you’ll end up with a bleeding ulcer again.”

He shook his head stubbornly, looking remarkably like his younger brother in one of his hissy fits.

“Those things make me _fat_!” he complained.

“No, they don’t, and you know that,” she replied calmly. “They just keep your blood sugar high enough so that you won’t fall over on your way to the car,” she planted herself firmly in the doorframe. “I won’t let you out of this office before you eat it, sir. And don’t even _think_ of running me over. You know what I’m capable of.”

Of course he knew. The fact that she had the black belt in several martial arts disciplines had been part of the reason why he would want her on his staff in the first place. A man in his position had to count on being attacked, and it was less pretentious to have a harmless-looking, pretty secretary on his side all the time than one of Captain Harkness’s gorillas.

Knowing that she meant what she said and wouldn’t back off, he finally gave in. Unwrapping the power bar – custom-made for his specific needs after a recipe of Dr. Harper, so that it would provide him with the most basic nutrients without putting any more strain on an already upset stomach – he began to eat it, morsel by morsel, making a show of his reluctance.

To his surprise, it wasn’t that bad as before.

“This is actually good,” he said. “New recipe?”

She nodded. “Dr. Harper meant there’s no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy it, sir. He’s working on several other sorts of special food for you; things that would be safe to eat but won’t taste horribly.”

Because one power bar wouldn’t solve the problem and they both knew that. The long-term goal was to get him back to semi-normal eating again, but that was still a long battle to fight. Still, as long as he’d have small, healthy snacks that he enjoyed, it wouldn’t be entirely hopeless.

When the power bar was consumed, she stepped out of his way wordlessly. He wouldn’t need her at Thames House, and with his blood sugar in balance again, she wouldn’t have to worry about him for a while. That gave her just enough time to consult with Dr. Harper. Preferably in person.

She watched from the window as her boss got into the car and Mickey Smith drove him away. Then she took out her BlackBerry – despite common belief, she _did_ pocket it from time to time – and texted the doctor.

_Relapse 2 days ago. We need to talk. Where are you?_

The answer came almost immediately.

_Canary Wharf. Can you come over?_

_On my way_ , she replied, hurrying down to the car park already. Mr. Holmes always kept a second car ready, in case they needed to go to different places. Like now.

“Take me to One Canada Square,” she instructed Jake Simmonds, the ersatz driver, climbing into the back seat.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The Torchwood Institute had been moved to Canary Wharf immediately after the regeneration of the Docklands in 1991. One Canada Square, at the time of its completion the tallest building in Europe (and the second-tallest of the UK to the current day) had soon become one of the most distinctive features on the Isle of Dogs. Not so much as to draw unwanted attention – the work done there was confidential, after all – but enough to be counted as important, even by those who weren’t aware of its true function.

Officially multi-tenanted, the only facilities it actually housed were the various labs and databases of the Torchwood Institute and the head offices of various business branches all owned by the Holmes family. Accordingly, security matters were taken very seriously; and, thanks to the expertise of Captain Harkness, head of security in the Holmes empire, the system worked like a charm.

Being the only person aside from Mr. Holmes himself with unlimited access to all facilities, Quilla had no difficulties getting in. Of course, as soon as the security scanner read the signal of her ring, her arrival was reported upstairs, and by the time she stepped out of the lift on the top level, she was already expected by Yvonne Hartmann.

“Nerys, dear, it’s good to see you again!” the elegant blonde woman in the sinfully expensive black dress exclaimed. “We weren’t told about a visit from Pall Mall.”

“This isn’t an official visit,” Quilla replied, smiling. She and Yvonne went back a long way, having both worked for MI5 before mutually promoted. “I just need to speak with Dr. Harper in a somewhat… sensitive matter. Oh, and it’s Quilla now.”

Yvonne smiled, familiar with her custom of changing names at irregular intervals.

“A good choice,” she said. “It has a nice ring to it. Owen is in his lab, you can go right through. I’d like to invite you to a coffee afterwards, but I’m afraid we’re still living on that disgusting dishwater you hate so much. I really need a PA who can brew a decent cup of coffee,” she added with a sigh.

“I wouldn’t have the time anyway,” Quilla said apologetically. “I must get back to Whitehall before Mr. Holmes would return. Our schedule is rather tight at the moment.”

“No rest for the wicked,” Yvonne nodded in understanding. “Well, you go on then. I won’t hold you back.”

Quilla thanked her and took the other lift down to Sublevel One, where the medical research labs were situated. The Torchwood Institute did a broad scale of research, from pharmaceutics through electronics to nanotechnology and only Rupert Howarth knew what else. Therefore the labs were arranged in a logical system that allowed closely related research areas to be physically close to each other, so that the scientists could cooperate in certain shared topics.

Of course, only the theoretical part and the harmless experiments were done in the Tower itself. Anything potentially risky or dangerous was transferred to the large underground facilities under the Thames flood barrier, for obvious reasons.

Dr. Owen Harper’s research into healthy nutrition was one of the most harmless things the Institute was doing… and one of the most profitable ones, in the long run. Based on he latest results of allergiology, they were working on the development of various food substances that people with respective allergies could eat; from diabetes to lactose or gluten allergies and much, much more. Considering the increase of pollution all over the planet, and the new allergies emerging because of it on an almost daily basis, this kind of research had great promise.

Dr. Harper’s effort to provide Mr. Holmes with small, nutritious snacks that would be appealing to his sweet tooth _without_ causing a relapse was just a tiny personal project on the sideline. Of course, as Mr. Holmes _owned_ the Institute, he could afford the luxury of supporting such projects. Even to separate a lab for this particular research alone.

Said lab was a small yet immaculate one, equipped with the best tools a researcher could wish for. Dr. Harper, a short, wiry, weasel-faced and dark-haired man in his early thirties, was sitting on a lab stool, wearing a white lab coat over his jeans and black T-shirt. He was probably the only person blithely ignoring the Institute’s strict dress code – and getting away with it. 

Of course, he wasn’t exactly working _for_ the Institute. As Mr. Holmes’s personal physician, he could allow himself small irregularities.

The other person currently in the lab was a handsome man, clearly of Indian origins, also wearing a white lab coat and gold-rimmed glasses.

“Dr. Rajesh Singh,” Dr. Harper introduced him. “He’s a microbiologist and new here. Just recently recruited.”

Quilla nodded noncommittally. She already knew _that_ , of course, as the files of potential new employees always went through her hands first. But Dr. Harper didn’t need to know that. The key to her success was to keep a low profile.

Nonetheless, she knew that Dr. Singh had been specifically selected for Mr. Holmes’s new project, with the main focus on fighting biological weapons and their effects. She had no doubt that the microbiologist would soon be transferred to the secure labs under the Thames flood barrier, even though the man probably hadn’t even heard about their existence yet.

But she didn’t have the time for social niceties at the moment.

“If you’ll excuse us, Dr. Singh,” she said with the most charming smile she could manage. “Dr. Harper and I have to discuss something… confidential. It won’t take long, though; I’ve got to hurry.”

The man understood the not-so-subtle hint and excused himself in a hurry. Barely had the door fallen shut behind him when Dr. Harper became deadly serious at once.

“All right,” he said grimly. “Gimme the details.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Less than an hour later Quilla was already leaving Torchwood Tower, armed with a bag full of new, experimental foodstuffs and a list of semi-legal diet pills easily available via Internet to look out for. She’d have to discuss the use of the foodstuffs with the cook of the country house – a task she already dreaded, considering how dumb Ms Tyler was – and with Wilf, who made it his mission to saw that Mr. Holmes ate at the _Diogenes Club_. At least Wilf was a smart old man… and devoted to Mr. Holmes.

On her way back, she checked with Mickey to see if Mr. Holmes was still at Thames House (he was), as well as with the team watching _Angelo’s_ to see whether young Mr. Jones had already begun his shift. When she got a positive answer, she made a quick decision. Mr. Holmes would be busy with the commodore for at least another hour. In that time she could take a closer look at young Mr. Jones.

A visit at _Angelo’s_ required some preparations, as there was always the chance that Sherlock would show up unexpectedly. The last thing she wanted was to catch the attention of the younger Holmes brother. So she changed outfits and hairdo and took her own car to drive over to the restaurant.

When she entered _Angelo’s_ (after instructing the team watching Sherlock to alert her in time, should he be heading her way), she looked every bit the junior bank manager or the posh secretary on a late lunch break, with her hair in a loose French twist and her little crème-and-pink costume that she only ever wore as a disguise.

Looking around, she decided that she liked the place. It was cosy and old-fashioned and warm, like the location of some old film, but – based on the aromas wafting her way – with a very real, very good cuisine.

“Lisa McAllister,” she said to the handsome Italian waiter who came to greet her, adopting a faint yet convincing Scottish accent, so very different from her natural one. This was one of her favourite aliases, complete with family background, which was the reason why she used it so sparsely.

“I phoned in advance,” she added.

“Of course, Miss,” the waiter said politely. “Please follow me; your table has been reserved.”

She got a fairly good table in a corner, which was all right with her. From that position, she could watch the front door, should somebody (namely Sherlock, as most other people she’d met in her official function wouldn’t recognize her anyway) who knew her arrive unexpectedly. The waiter asked for her orders and, deciding that a decent meal could be a good thing, she ordered chicken cacciatore and a salad.

“I recommend the white wine of the house,” the waiter said, taking notes. “Angelo gets it from a cousin of his; it’s very good, and goes well with chicken.”

“Just coffee for me, thanks,” she replied. She had to drive back to Whitehall, and drinking would have been an unnecessarily risk.

The waiter nodded, leaving before he’d ask _what_ kind of coffee she wanted. The reason for that became clear when less than ten minutes later another young man arrived, placing before her a small silver tray with a tall glass of coffee, a small glass of water and two ginger biscuits.

“A large macchiato, no sugar, with liquid cream,” he said, with a distinctive Welsh lilt in his soft voice.

She looked up at him in surprise. “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

He smiled and replied with a little shrug, “I don’t know how. I just do. It’s an instinct; which is why Angelo keeps me around. You shouldn’t wait much longer to drink it, ma’am. Below a certain temperature, much of the taste gets lost.”

He nodded politely and returned to the ancient, gleaming coffee machine behind the counter. Quilla watched him over the rim of her glass with interest. He was clad just a tad more stylishly than on the surveillance photos: still in skin-tight jeans, but without that ridiculously studded belt, and he wore an open-necked aubergine shirt instead of that shabby black tee. With the long black apron all waiters wore at _Angelo’s_ , he was actually looking fairly decent.

Why on Earth would Mr. Holmes believe that he could become a security risk?

Remembering the warning, she took a sip from her coffee. The aroma all but exploded in her mouth, and for a moment she forgot to breathe. She never imagined that coffee could taste like _this_. Small wonder that Sherlock had taken notice of the young man’s existence; unlike his older brother, he was fond of coffee, even if he showed aversion against most other foodstuffs.

Sometimes she wondered what kind of biochemical miracle kept the Holmes brothers alive. Neither of them ate sensible and regular meals, they barely slept, and both worked insane hours. At least Mr. Holmes had _her_ to look after him, but Sherlock? Sherlock despised what he called _minders_ – meaning practically everyone who would care whether he lived or died – and he adamantly refused to accept the slightest piece of advice from anyone, even from his brother.

 _Especially_ from his brother, truth be told.

They were like two overgrown toddlers, still fighting in the same sandbox after thirty-some years, competing with each other and for their mother’s attention. Well, at least Mr. Holmes did. Sherlock didn’t seem to care. But she knew better; it was her job to know such things. And she’d known these brilliant, broken, infuriating men for almost ten years by now. She knew how hard it was to help them fit into a world that had no chance to understand their genius.

She did her best to help Mr. Holmes through the pitfalls of normal life. Sometimes she wondered, though, if Sherlock would ever find somebody patient enough to do the same thing for him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Having finished his official appointment with Commodore Sullivan at the Thames House – the new naval treaty with a certain Middle-Eastern country that needed to remain unnamed was a particularly tricky piece of work – Mycroft Holmes reached the _Diogenes Club_ just in time to be punctual for his private meeting with Rupert Howarth. The main archivist of the Torchwood Institute was a nondescript man in his early sixties, with short, thinning brown hair and small hazel eyes that were seemingly lost in a large face behind his gold-rimmed glasses. 

He was, like practically everybody in the _Club_ , wearing a three-piece suit, although a considerably less expensive one than the majority of the _Club_ members. He was an old-fashioned gentleman, for sure, but not a wealthy one. The only riches he possessed were of intellectual nature: a sharp, well-organised mind, encyclopaedic knowledge and an excellent memory.

Which made him a perfect fit for the job he’d been doing for almost forty years.

A job he’d have to retreat from eventually, and by that time, a worthy successor needed to have been found and properly trained. This was a problem of which Mycroft had been aware for quite some time. Unfortunately, there hadn’t been any suitable candidates so far. Now he was wondering if his son could probably fill Howarth’s shoes – and hoped that Howard would be able to tell him. If not right away, then in the not-too-distant future.

Thy discussed the recent changes in the profile of the Torchwood Institute – namely the research aimed to fight the effects of biological warfare and Dr. Singh’s role in said research – while Wilf served them the usual perfect cup of tea. The old man made the best cuppa in the entire UK, always using a special blend of Darjeeling, which he personally bought in some tiny Indian shop, specialized in teas and spices. He poured the fragrant brew from an antique china teapot that, by rights, should have been kept in the _National Antiques Museum_ , preferably behind bullet-proof glass, into matching cups. Then he discretely withdrew, knowing that he wouldn’t be needed until the gentlemen would leave the _Strangers’ Room_. Then he would come back, clean the tea service and store it safely.

Rupert Howarth waited until the elderly manservant left. Then he put down his teacup very carefully and gave his employer a crooked smile.

“I assume you haven’t asked for this meeting just to discuss with me Dr. Singh’s assets, sir,” he said. “Even though he definitely has the brainpower to become part of your exclusive government think tank.”

Mycroft nodded. “You’re correct as always, Dr. Howarth. I wanted to hear your opinion about one of your new students.”

“Which one?” Howarth asked. He could think of two, at least, who might have caught Mr Holmes’s interest. Or that of the Torchwood head-hunters.

“Ianto Jones,” Mycroft replied.

The answer surprised Howarth so much that he couldn’t even hide it properly.

“ _Jones_? Why would you be interested in _Jones_ , of all people? Sir,” he added hurriedly, seeing Mycroft’s slightly displeased frown 

“I was asked to keep an eye on the boy,” Mycroft explained smoothly. “He’s the son of some old… acquaintances of mine, recently deceased. I consider it my duty to see that he doesn’t waste his life. So please be honest with me. I know it’s been just a short time, but you’ve always been a good judge of character. What do you think of him?”

Howarth considered the possible answer for a while.

“It’s hard to tell,” he finally said. “The boy keeps himself covered... his true self, I mean. He connects with the others easily enough, at least on the surface, but doesn’t let anyone in close. That poor little geek, his flatmate, follows him everywhere like an eager poodle, but I don’t think they’d be close friends, not really.”

“Flatmate?” Mycroft repeated with a frown.

Quilla hadn’t mentioned any flatmate. He’d have to have words with her about what a complete background check was supposed to mean.

“Wesley Wyndham-Price,” Howarth supplied. “The late Aubrey Wyndham’s nephew.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. He used to know Aubrey Wyndham, of course, he even knew that the man had a sister and a nephew, but neither of them had ever been important enough to take notice of them.

“And he needs a flatshare? In such a bleak little bed-sit?”

Howard shrugged, not even wondering where Mr. Holmes would know about the young man’s living conditions. Mr. Holmes _always_ knew such things.

“That’s penniless gentry for you, sir. When Aubrey Wyndham died, nothing was left of what once had been considered the family wealth. And Mr. Price, Wesley’s father, is struggling to keep his business out of the red numbers on a daily basis.”

Mycroft nodded. That was unfortunate for Mr. Price, but such things happened. Economics had been rather bumpy lately. At least Ianto had found a flatmate that he could accept. The Wyndhams were – well, had been, since they’d died out with Aubrey Wyndham, the last of them – a respectable family.

“How are they getting on?” he asked.

“Well enough, it seems,” Howarth replied with another shrug. “They even study together on a regular basis. Of course, Wesley had the advantage of a proper education. But while he’s eager, Jones seems vaguely interested in his studies at best. I don’t think he’s found his true calling yet.”

“He’s very young; he still has enough time for orientation,” Mycroft said dismissively. “Does Wyndham-Price have a chosen career yet?”

“He wants to become a librarian,” Howarth said. “Preferably in a museum. He’s a bookworm.”

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. If the young Wyndham-Price proved good at his chosen field, he might offer him a job. A temporary one, but one meant to ease his way financially during his studies. The library of the Holmes manor needed to be digitally catalogued and rearranged. That would take awhile; and it would mean for Ianto to have a familiar face around.

 _If_ Mycroft chose to acknowledge his son, that is.

“What about Ianto’s abilities, though?” he asked. “Memory? Observation skills? Learning speed?”

“He’s a fast learner, once he’s put his mind to it,” Howarth answered, measuring his words carefully. “The trick is to get him interested in something in the first place, which isn’t always easy. Once he gets hooked, though, he’s like a dog with a bone: he wouldn’t let go of a problem until he’s solved it. Of course, his state school education was mediocre at best. But he’s skilled at filling the gaps with Wesley’s help.”

“What does Wyndham-Price get out of this association, save for the dank little hole they share?” Mycroft asked with a frown.

Howarth allowed himself the shadow of a smile. “Company. Jones is rather popular among the other students. He plays rugby, sings in a band and makes heavenly coffee, it’s said. The others tolerate Wesley for his sake. He made it clear from the beginning that he’d come in a package with his flatmate or not at all.”

Mycroft was stunned. His son was _popular_? Popular enough to make his fellow students accept the penniless posh boy he lived with? And he sang in a _band_? Between his studies and a half-time job, when did he find the time to do _that_? And why hadn’t Quilla told him those facts? He really needed to have serious words with his usually so efficient PA.

Another thing occurred to him. Could his son have inherited his orientation? Was _that_ why he supported his geeky, posh flatmate? That would have been a most unwanted turn of events. Mummy was scandalized about _him_ already.

“Do you think Wyndham-Price is more to him than just a flatmate?” he asked directly.

Howarth shook his head. “No, I find that rather unlikely. Wesley has been making clumsy attempts to catch the eye of several different girls – very little chance of success here, I’m afraid – while Jones has been seen on campus with that strawberry blonde art student a few times, what’s her name… Emma! Emma Louise Cowell. She’s a nice one, wants to become a fashion designer, I heard.”

“You seem to know a great deal about your students for someone who only spends a few hours a week on campus,” Mycroft said dryly. Howarth shrugged.

“Actually, I’m just keeping an eye on Wesley. Aubrey Wyndham was an old friend, and I promised him to take his nephew under my wings as well as I can. I’m glad he met Jones, though. Of common stock or not, that boy is good for Wesley.”

Mycroft suppressed an angry scowl. Howarth couldn’t know who Ianto truly was, after all. It was understandable that he’d dismiss a boy, save for his positive influence on his own protégée.

“Very well,” he said. “I need to know more about those boys, especially Ianto. I want you to arrange some tests to map the range of their memory. Given what I’ve been told about Ianto so far – which is, admittedly, not much – he might have an eidetic memory. His previous schools were not equipped to test him in that area, but I want it done.”

“Photographic memory would be more likely,” Howarth said. “He seems to remember particularly well of things he’d seen or read. All right, sir. Consider it done. Anything else?”

“Not at the moment,” Mycroft replied slowly. “I think I’ll take care of the rest myself. Keep me informed, though.”


	7. First Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we’ll have a reunion with some old friends in new roles. *g*

**CHAPTER 06 – FIRST CONTACT**

The evenings were usually busy at _Angelo’s_ , but there also was a time of lull – about two hours in the late afternoon – after the lunch crowd had left and before the dinner crowd would start to file in. Barely a few couples were occupying the best tables at this time, and today was particularly quiet. Ianto chalked it up to the football match broadcast through the main channels. Only affairs concerning the royal family could keep the Londoners more firmly in front of the telly than such an important game.

Even though lull time meant fewer tips (and fewer tips meant a somewhat restricted diet for the next week, studying being an expensive hobby), Ianto didn’t mean the peace and quiet. The last couple of weeks had been rather hectic at university; plus, he had the nagging feeling that he was being watched.

He didn’t have any hard proof, of course. The pleasantly crowded environment of _Angelo’s_ offered countless very good places to hide any number of security cameras; it wasn’t as if he’d get the chance to search for them methodically (although he was quite sure he could find them… eventually). But he thought to have spotted the same car parking near the restaurant a couple of times; and even some of the casual customers appeared familiar.

He could make an educated guess who might be behind the surveillance act. His mysterious father most likely had the means to keep tabs on him; if for no other reason, than out of precaution. Ianto didn’t really care. He was not about to initiate contact with his father – not unless he _absolutely_ had to – but he could understand that the man might be interested in him. After all, he was something of a treat to a presumably patrician lifestyle. 

A minor threat, or so he hoped. He really didn’t want to vanish without a trace, never to be heard of again.

But the quiet hours of late afternoon were welcome nonetheless. They gave him the chance to get some help with his studies from his flatmate. Wes – or rather Wesley Wyndham-Price – came from an old, yet nowadays fairly penniless family, which was why he needed a flatshare ( _if_ their dank little place could be called a flat). But he’d gone to Westminster, thanks to a generous elderly uncle (sadly, deceased in the meantime) and was a lot better at the classic disciplines than Ianto could ever hope to become.

And he was more than willing to share his knowledge. Socially inept and almost painfully shy, he had no friends worth that name of his own. Travelling in Ianto’s orbit made him less isolated, and for that, he was absurdly grateful.

Angelo didn’t mind them sitting over some essay or homework at one of the least popular tables, as long as no customers needed it and Ianto still delivered his magic coffee in-between. He probably hoped that the presence of young students would attract more young people, enabling him to build up a whole new generation of clientele or something like that.

Of course, the fact that he’d grown very fond of Ianto very quickly did help, too.

They were puzzling over some bizarre new type of computer language that promised to make archiving even more efficient (Wes wanted to get a job as a librarian at the British Museum or some other great temple of culture eventually, so archiving was his special interest), when the front door got tossed open with a flourish, like in some kind of action film.

Ianto glanced up automatically – then he had to look twice, cos the man entering was rather unusual, to say the least. Over six feet tall, wearing a grey World War II RAF greatcoat like an armour or a second skin. On anyone else, that outdated coat would have looked like a ridiculous carnival costume. This man, however, did have the height and the breadth to fill it well. On him, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

Ianto wondered briefly whether a captain’s stripes on his sleeve were genuine or not. Somehow he didn’t think they’d be there just for the show. The man was clearly too young to have served in the War, but he also clearly had – or used to have – a military background. There was something in the way he carried himself, in the underlying alert with which he scanned the restaurant, like someone who needed to be vigilant all the time.

In strange contrast to the outdated uniform and the semi-military mannerism, the man wore his brown hair in aggressive spikes that would put any Japanese anime character to shame. An odd choice that, Ianto was sure about it, wasn’t a coincidence. Whoever this man was, he clearly worked hard on his image.

The man in question now crossed the restaurant and went straight to Wes and Ianto’s table, right next to the coffee counter. His eyes were very bright and very blue, and he was almost ridiculously good-looking. He even bore a slight resemblance to that American actor, Tom Cruise – or the other way round – yet there was something deeply British about him, although Ianto couldn’t really tell _what_ it was.

“I’m looking for Ianto Jones,” he said with a slight American accent ( _must have lived in the overseas for a long time; not recently, though, the accent has already faded_ , Ianto’s brain supplied), and when he smiled, he showed more teeth than any mortal man was entitled to have, all perfectly even and blinding white.

“You’ve found him,” Ianto replied warily. “How can I help you, Captain…”

“Jack Harkness,” the man introduced himself. “My… employer wants to talk to you. The car’s waiting outside the restaurant.”

“Too bad,” Ianto stepped behind the counter and began to feed the ancient Fraema with exactly the right amount of freshly ground coffee – the good beans, of course, he’d never insult her with using something cheap. “As you can see, I’m busy right now.”

The bright blue eyes narrowed in annoyance in a second. “So is my employer, and believe me, boy, he can throw around a lot more weight than you or me, if necessary.”

“I’m quaking in my shoes,” Ianto replied, filling up the machine to the necessary level with water and switching it on. The after-work coffee crowd was about to start arriving in ten minutes. Time enough for the first round of coffee to be ready.

“I would, if I were you,” the man – well, Captain Harkness, apparently – said, his voice utterly serious. “Here, read this.”

He handed Ianto a smartphone. There was a short text message on the gleaming black surface of the small screen.

_I believe you know who I am_ , it said. _We need to talk. Come out to the car. MH_

For a moment Ianto just glared at the message, dumbfounded. His father – well, his _biological_ father – had apparently decided to make his move, after all. Had taken him long enough, but in the end… 

It didn’t mean that Ianto would blindly trust the mysterious and very powerful man whom he’d never met before, though.

“I’m sorry,” he told Captain Harkness, “but I’m _not_ getting into some unknown car with people I don’t know. That would be reckless and stupid, and I’m none of those things.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about the _stupid_ part,” Captain Harkness replied, the warning clear in his voice. “Unless, of course, you’re simply ignorant and have no idea who Mr Holmes is. People don’t simply refuse his requests. Not if they have their own best interest on their mind, that is.”

“He’s right, you know,” Wesley, who’d been listening to their conversation with growing unease, said quietly. “I heard stories from my uncle…”

Ianto just shrugged again. He wasn’t easily intimidated, and whatever Captain Harkness might think, he _wasn’t_ stupid. He knew it was risky to annoy someone with a position in the British government, no matter how minor that position might be (although he seriously doubted that it would really be _that_ minor). But it was still safer than getting into a car with the same man while he still couldn’t be sure of said man’s intentions. He could easily vanish from the face of the earth, never to be seen again.

“Well, I’m truly sorry,” be said calmly, “but I’ve got more pressing issues at the moment. Like working for a living. You can tell your… employer that he doesn’t have to worry. I’m well content with who I am and what I’ve got – I won’t _ever_ bother him, for anything.”

In the meantime the coffee had run its circle. Ianto filled one of the tall latte glasses with a triple espresso, put the glass on a silver tablet, added four sugars, a small can of cream and the obligatory glass of water and pushed it in the captain’s direction.

“Enjoy your coffee, Captain. It’s on the house. I hope it’s strong enough.”

Captain Harkness looked at him in mild confusion and just a little bit of annoyance, and Ianto realized that the man – most likely his father’s chief bodyguard or whatnot – had no idea about his true identity. That cemented his decision _not_ to get into the car even more. If not even the chief honcho knew about him, then his father clearly wasn’t planning to acknowledge him. Therefore it was safer for him to keep his distance.

“I’m afraid things aren’t quite that easy,” a soft, cultured voice said from behind the captain’s broad back, and a previously unnoticed man walked up to the coffee counter. 

He stood out of the usual afternoon crowd of _Angelo’s_ like a sore thumb in his expensive, tailored three-piece suit ( _Gieves & Hawkes_, Ianto’s brain automatically supplied), and though they had little to nothing in common, save perhaps a round face, Ianto knew at once that this can only be his biological father. The man had dark blue eyes, slightly thinning auburn hair, a long, pointy nose and thin lips. He was leaning on his umbrella like on a walking stick and looked around in the restaurant with quiet disdain.

Then his eyes measured Ianto’s appearance with the same faint disappointment. Ianto noticed that slightly pained look and did his heroic best to suppress a grin. They’d scheduled some practice time with the band for tonight, and so he was wearing his skin-tight jeans with the studded leather belt again, with a black shirt, the top three buttons of which were open to show off the string of coloured clay beads around his neck and the sleeves of which were rolled up at work. 

Add the long, black apron bound before him and he certainly didn’t look like what a wealthy and powerful man would expect of a son. Of his _only_ son, if Mr. Williams’s research had been thorough. But Ianto wasn’t ashamed of what he was and how he earned his living, and he wasn’t about to change his life just because his previously unknown father might not approve.

Said father now gave the clearly petrified Wesley – who seemed to recognise him – a fleeting look.

“Wesley,” he said in a somewhat patronising tone that made Ianto wish to punch him in the face,” My sincerest condolences on the passing of your uncle. Mr. Wyndham was a good, decent man.”

Wesley gulped nervously. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I… I didn’t think you’d remember me.”

“I didn’t,” Mycroft Holmes replied with a faint smile. “Not until Mr Howarth mentioned you recently, that is. We are members of the same club, you see.”

Ianto rolled his eyes. _Of course_ his father would order a full background check on him and on everyone he socialised with. _Of course_ he’d know Rupert Howarth. And, of course, he wouldn’t be able to resist rubbing that in.

“Look, sir,” he said firmly but politely, “I know that you’ve had the same surprise recently as myself. In truth, I’m still dealing with the shock as well as I can. But as far as I’m concerned, this… this big surprise doesn’t mean anything. I’m who I am, and I don’t intend to change it any time soon. I _like_ what I am. I like to be independent, for the first time of my life.”

“And I’d like to believe you,” his father replied. “But as I said, things aren’t quite that simple. There are a number of issues that we need to discuss, regardless of your final decision.”

“Well, why don’t we sit down and talk then?” Ianto demanded, his voice challenging. “No offence, sir, but I’m not getting into that car of yours, and if your gorilla here tries to force me, I’m gonna scream loud enough for Her Majesty to hear it at Buckingham Palace.”

Captain Harkness shot him a fairly annoyed look, apparently not used to be called a gorilla ( _vanity?_ ), and Wesley, mortified, seemed just about ready to faint. His father, however, didn’t seem to take offence.

“I assure you that won’t be necessary,” Mycroft Holmes said smoothly. “I do understand your mistrust. People in my position do have the reputation of being ruthless; a reputation that’s well-earned, I’m afraid. We really do need to talk, though; and while this place is said to be a fairly decent one as Italian restaurants go, it isn’t suited for the kind of conversation I have on my mind.”

Before Ianto could answer, the coffee machine started to blow off steam and Angelo emerged from the kitchen as if it were a signal horn. He did love Ianto’s coffee like everyone else. When he spotted the man in the expensive suit, though, he all but got rooted on the spot.

“Mr Holmes!” he exclaimed. “We didn’t expect you. Sherlock isn’t here… hasn’t been for days, actually.”

Ianto was fairly surprised, too. Angelo knew his father? And the eccentric detective he’d recently met here knew him, too?

“That’s fine, Angelo,” Mycroft Holmes said calmly. “I’m not here to check on my little brother today. I need to talk to Mr Jones here, assuming he’s willing to talk – and you can give him the evening free. I assure you I’ll compensate for the loss his absence might cause your business.”

Ianto cursed inwardly. He had meant to do an internet search on Angelo’s resident mad genius, but there had been so much else to do in the recent days that he’d completely forgotten about it. Now he wished he hadn’t. Finding out on his own that said mad genius was actually his _uncle_ would have been less of a shock.

He blinked repeatedly, realising that Angelo was talking to him.

“You can go with Mr Holmes,” the Sicilian was saying encouragingly. “He won’t harm you.”

“And you know that… how exactly?” Ianto asked. 

He liked Angelo, but the fact that the Sicilian was associated with both Holmes brothers raised his suspicions. Was this all some elaborate conspiracy, designed to get rid of him? He wouldn’t put it beyond his father.

Angelo raised a thick, lecturing forefinger. “Cause Sherlock would never forgive him if he did.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Ianto muttered darkly. “Bloke probably won’t even remember my name.”

“Oh, but he’ll remember your _coffee_ ,” Angelo said conspiratorially. “Sherlock is very fond of _good_ coffee.”

“Indeed he is,” Mycroft Holmes gave his chief honcho a pointed look. “And since you share his somewhat… pedestrian taste in beverages, Captain, why don’t you drink yours before it gets cold? Perhaps if I leave you behind as a hostage Mr Jones will be more inclined to come with me.”

“Yeah, but that would require you actually _caring_ about me, sir,” Captain Harkness pointed out, grinning like a loon.

Ianto briefly considered keeping a par of sunglasses at hand in the future, should the man decide to visit _Angelo’s_ again.

“It would indeed,” his father agreed with the captain. “A foolish mistake on my side no doubt.”

“Oh, bugger off, both of you!” Ianto said, fed up with their private little games. “You want me to go with you? Fine, I’ll go with you. Angelo, should I suddenly disappear, make sure that his brother knows he’s abducted me. And Captain, no bullying Wesley around, or next time you set foot in here you’ll be on decaf,” he turned to his father. “Let’s go before I change my mind!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Mycroft watched with well-hidden amusement as his son tried to secure his back and protect his meek flatmate at the same time, while marching into what he clearly considered a potentially dangerous situation with his eyes wide open. For somebody so young Ianto covered the bases remarkably well. He wouldn’t hesitate using Sherlock against him if he had to, despite the fact that he’d only learned about the family connection minutes ago.

Whether that tactic – or threatening Captain Harkness with decaf – would actually work was another question. The boy used what little he had and was obviously good at thinking on his feet.

They reached the car, where Quilla was waiting for them, texting away on her BlackBerry as always.

“Ms Baine has agreed with your suggestion concerning the Germans, sir,” she said, without looking up. “The project is a go.”

Mycroft sighed in relief. He’d suggested the Home Secretary this joint anti-terrorist project with the Germans _months_ ago and had all but given up hope that she’d actually listen. This was a pleasant surprise.

“Thank you, my dear,” he replied. “Now, if you could leave us alone for a while; Mr Jones and I have much to discuss.”

“I’d offer you coffee again,” Ianto added, “but I’m afraid Billy is rubbish when it comes using the coffee machine.”

She looked up from her phone now, and gave him a puzzled smile.

“I’m not sure I understand…”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” Ianto replied with his bland receptionist smile. “You came to _Angelo’s_ recently; no doubt to check me out on behalf of your boss. You had a different hairdo and a Scottish accent, and you were wearing that horrible pink and crème costume, but it _was_ you. I’m very good at marking faces.”

She smiled noncommittally. “You must be mistaken.”

“No, I’m not,” Ianto said, slightly irritated now, “so you can stop playing dumb. And next time you’re sent to spy on me you should think of a better disguise.”

Mycroft was impressed. Most people wouldn’t have recognized Quilla, after having had but a short glimpse at her in disguise. She was almost like a chameleon. The boy obviously had excellent observation skills. Howarth must have been guessing right with that photographic memory assumption.

“You were at _Angelo’s_ lately?” he asked, but all he got was an enigmatic smile.

“That would be telling, sir,” she opened the car door for him. “If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll be having lunch while the two of you… err… discuss your issues. Should I get you some takeaway?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Pasta doesn’t fit in my diet plan, I’m afraid. I’ll eat in the office,” he looked briefly at his pocket watch, “in about one hour.”

She looked as if she wanted to argue but reconsidered, doubtlessly because of Ianto’s presence.

“Very well, sir,” was all she said and left them alone.

“She’s not happy with your eating habits,” Ianto commented, looking after her with mild interest.

“She’s a mother hen,” Mycroft replied, climbing into the back seat. “Would you kindly join me? I’m not going to abduct you. Captain Harkness is driving me today and, as you can see, he isn’t even here.”

Ianto gave him a funny look. “Does that mean you can’t drive?”

Mycroft withstand the urge to roll his eyes. “I most definitely _can_ drive, don’t be ridiculous, boy! My father was an automobile aficionado; he’d have disowned me if I hadn’t learned how to drive at the age of fifteen. Of course, he never allowed me closer than ten feet to any of his cars after I’d crashed Bessie less than a year later.”

“ _Bessie_?” Ianto’s eyes glazed over for a moment; then he brightened again as realization hit. “Oh! A pet name for a beloved car!”

“The ugliest oldtimer ever polluted this planet,” Mycroft nodded. “But Father loved her… it. He and Aunt Diane were crazy about cars; Aunt Diane still is.”

“But not you,” Ianto grinned. It wasn’t a question.

Mycroft nodded again. “I find it more practical if a professional driver does the crashing. One cannot fire oneself over a car.”

“Not to mention that sprawling on the back seat is a great deal more impressive than slaving behind the steering wheel,” Ianto was still grinning.

“There’s that,” Mycroft admitted, allowing himself the luxury of a thin smile. Then he became serious again. “I believe I must apologize for the manner in which I’ve arranged this meeting. I’d have preferred a more… civilized ambience. Unfortunately, I’m quite busy at the moment with…err… things of national importance.”

“Let me guess,” Ianto said sarcastically. “If you told me more, you’d have to kill me.”

“Afraid so,” Mycroft replied amiably. “Not with my own hands, of course. We’ve got minions for that sort of thing.”

Ianto seemed to hesitate for a moment whether he should laugh or not; then he decided against it. Smart boy.

“You’re not kidding,” he said flatly. It wasn’t a question, either.

“No,” Mycroft smiled his faint politician’s smile, but with an edge of shark in it. “I’m not. I’m a dangerous man, Ianto, and any allegiance with me would endanger you, too.”

“Is that why you’ve waited so long before contacting me?” Ianto asked, the tone of his voice revealing his doubt. “Cos you didn’t want to endanger me?”

“No,” Mycroft replied bluntly. “I was waiting to see how _you_ would act; what you’d do with the information revealed to you. Yet you did nothing.”

Ianto shrugged. “What was I supposed to do? Mam and Tad might not have been my biological parents, but they loved me like their own and raised me as a Jones. Actually, I _am_ a Jones… to one half anyway. That the other half didn’t come from the Lloyds but from some remote, posh family doesn’t seem terribly important to me.”

“Most people would be excited to discover that they’re related to some of the oldest and wealthiest families in England,” Mycroft said.

Ianto shrugged again. “Well, I’m not _most people_. May I ask why you _did_ decide to contact me after all, sir? I can imagine that learning about me wasn’t a pleasant surprise.”

“It was something of a shock, at least at first,” Mycroft admitted. “Regardless of the circumstances, though, you _are_ my heir. My _only_ heir.”

Ianto’s glance flicked to the ring upon his finger. “You’re not married, then?”

Mycroft shook his head. “This ring only means that I’m the Holmes family head. It’s an old family heirloom that has gone from father to firstborn son for many generations.”

“And yet your PA wears a similar one,” Ianto commented.

“Similar but not identical,” Mycroft explained, pleased with his son’s observation skills. “It empowers her to access certain areas of the family business when I’m not available.”

“So she and you aren’t…” Ianto trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

“Good Lord, no!” Mycroft felt mildly scandalized by the idea, just like when Commodore Sullivan had asked the same question. “Why would people _possibly_ believe that?”

“Well, a lot of men do have affairs with their secretary,” Ianto pointed out reasonably. “Even rich and powerful ones.”

Mycroft shot him a baleful look, but considering the boy’s own accidental conception, he couldn’t really blame him for asking.

“I’ve learned to be more… disciplined,” was all he said.

“But you could have married, couldn’t you?” Ianto asked. “Why haven’t you? I mean, isn’t it what those posh families want from their sons? To produce heirs that would carry on the family name and all that nonsense?”

“They do indeed,” Mycroft was equal parts amused and curious if his son would make the proper deductions. He knew his body language was not easy to read – another advantage of the public school education – but if the boy had inherited the Holmes gift of reading people, he should be able to figure out the truth.

“Why didn’t you then?” Ianto insisted. “You haven’t known about me until you got Tad’s letter, have you? So you couldn’t know that you already had an heir… even if an illegitimate one.”

“True,” Mycroft smiled faintly. “So what do you think?”

“Well, I seriously doubt that you’d have been so much in love with my… my birth mother that you wouldn’t want anyone else, since you never bothered to seek her out again,” Ianto said slowly. “And I don’t think that all suitable women would be utterly repulsive… unless you’re gay, of course.”

“How could I possibly be gay?” Mycroft asked, amused. “I’ve sired _you_ quite by accident, after all.”

“Oh, please!” Ianto snorted. “As if your sexual orientation would automatically render you impotent!”

“True again,” Mycroft was hiding a smile. “So, what if I _am_ , in fact, gay?”

Ianto shrugged. “I have no problem with that; it’s your life. I guess your family wasn’t happy when they found out, though.”

“What makes you think they _did_ find out?” Mycroft countered.

Ianto raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “I don’t know about the rest of your family, but I’d bet my arm that your brother probably found out before _you_ did. I can’t imagine many things that man would miss.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Mycroft agreed. “Although he still has no idea about _you_ ; I wonder how long _that_ will take.”

“You haven’t told your family about me?” Ianto didn’t seem particularly surprised. Clearly, he’d expected to remain a dirty little secret.

“Oh, I told them all… _except_ Sherlock,” Mycroft corrected. “Besides, it’s _your_ family, too.”

Ianto actually _laughed_ at that; it wasn’t a pleasant sound.

“Oh no, they aren’t,” he said. Well, by blood perhaps, although _that_ needs to be proved first, too. But in nothing that really counts.”

It was now Mycroft’s turn with the eyebrow™.

“Blood _does_ count, my boy. Old families like ours are very blood-conscious. They consider an illegitimate child the lesser evil, compared with the lack of any children. Rest assured that the family will eventually get used to you and accept you…”

“…if _you_ decided to accept me,” Ianto finished for him darkly.

Mycroft nodded, “Precisely.”

“Well, perhaps you should ask yourself if _I’d_ want to belong to a bunch of posh people who’d look down their long noses upon the only family I’ve ever known,” Ianto snapped, his blue eyes hardening to ice. “They’d never have accepted my mother, would they?”

“No, they wouldn’t,” Mycroft admitted. “The only time Father visited me in Oxford was to break us up.”

“And he succeeded,” Ianto pointed out with infuriating logic. “You backed off and left her. She wasn’t worth a confrontation with your father. And yet you would, _they_ would accept me, just because you provided one half of the genetic material to my haploid egg? So the half of me that’s Holmes is valuable, while the other, the really important half, the one that’s made me the person I’m now, isn’t?”

He was really angry now. Not showing the kind of fearsome temper Sherlock used to terrorize everyone with in his youth, no. This was the simple, honest, righteous anger of a man whose loved ones had just been insulted.

“Well, they’re not all that bad,” Mycroft said carefully. “I’m sure you’d like Aunt Diane, she’s rather… unconventional. And I think you’ll get on with Sherlock just fine. He despises the family and its traditions, too.”

“Yeah, he just expects people to jump whenever he snaps his fingers,” Ianto muttered, slightly mollified now.

Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock lives in the illusion that all other people are there for the sole purpose of assisting him. You handled him well, though, at your recent run-in. Granted, he was distracted by a case, but I’ve never seen anyone confuse him so much at the first meeting.”

The blue eyes of the boy narrowed in anger again. “Are you spying on me? Isn’t there a law somewhere protecting the personal rights of British citizens? Or are you so far above the law that you can ignore it as you please?”

“I’ve got my little brother under constant surveillance, for reasons I’m not quite willing to reveal just yet,” Mycroft replied smoothly; not an outright lie, but not the entire truth, either. No need to antagonize the boy any further. “I rather doubt that you’d know, but Special Operations Six gives undercover armed protection to members of the British government, civil servants and others who are considered to be ‘at risk’ due to the nature of their work.”

“That would explain _you_ ,“ Ianto said. “But how would _Sherlock_ qualify?”

“He’s designated as a protected family member, therefore his movements are very carefully monitored, as are those with whom he has contact,” Mycroft explained. 

Ianto shook his head in bewilderment. “That gives the phrase _big brother is watching_ a whole new meaning,” he muttered. “It’s creepy.”

“I assure you that it’s necessary,” Mycroft said with a pained smile. “Sherlock has self-destructive tendencies. He’s already overdosed twice. After the second time I decided _not_ to give him a third chance to do so.”

“I’m sure he appreciates it,” Ianto commented dryly. “ _And_ you telling all about it a complete stranger.”

“You’re not a stranger,” Mycroft countered. “You’re family; which he’ll learn – or figure out on his own – sooner rather than later.”

Ianto shook his head again. “You don’t understand, do you? I’m _not_ your family. I’ve already got a family and I’m happy with them. I don’t need some posh gits wrinkle their noses over me, just because my mother and you were careless in your misspent youth. I won’t be your dirty little secret… _or_ your public embarrassment, and I won’t let you turn my life upside down just so that you can present an heir, after all… or because you’re feeling guilty.”

“Why must you be so unreasonable?” Mycroft complained.

“I’m not unreasonable, sir,” Ianto shrugged. “I’m _Welsh_. It’s part of being a Jones.”

“Yes, I assume it must be,” Mycroft agreed dryly. “If it’s any consolation, I haven’t planned a grand public announcement just yet. In fact, I thought you’d want to learn more about the family – and about _me_ – by working for me for a while. No strings attached. You can make your decision freely once you have a better idea what it would mean to be a Holmes.”

“Work for you?” Ianto echoed warily. “Do you need a butler or a new PA or whatnot?”

“I assure you that I’ve got perfectly good people for those jobs and I won’t even dream of replacing them,” Mycroft said calmly. “I was thinking of establishing you as Mr. Howarth’s assistant. He’ll be retiring in a few years; we’ll test your abilities, and if you pass, you can be trained to become his successor.”

“As a teacher at university?” Ianto asked in complete bewilderment. “I doubt that I’d be suited for teaching, sir. Besides, shouldn’t I have to graduate first? I’ve just began my studies a couple of months ago.”

“I’m well aware of that fact,” Mycroft replied. “But you might not know that Mr Howarth’s only teaching part-time. His actual job is a much more complex and demanding one. It requires a highly organized mind, an excellent memory and a great deal of dedication. He does have all that in spades. But he’s getting old, and his successor would need years to be trained properly. We need to find the right candidate while he’s still capable of train him.”

“And you want _me_ to be that person?” Ianto frowned.

Mycroft nodded. “If you turn out to have the right abilities, yes. We always preferred a family member overseeing the work of the Institute. As a senior civil servant, I cannot do it – my work is eating me alive as it is – and Sherlock won’t do it, out of sheer spite… and there’s nobody else in the family who would qualify.”

“The Institute?” Ianto repeated warily. “Is that a code name for the Secret Service or whatnot?”

Mycroft smiled. The boy had a vivid fantasy – all those Bond films must have made a lasting impression – but he was searching in the right direction. Not where the Institute was concerned, though.

“No,” he said truthfully. “It’s a genuine scientific institute, which contributes greatly to the family wealth.”

“But sir, I’m not a scientist; neither do I intend to become one,” Ianto reminded him. “How can you expect me to become the director of any scientific institute, even after years of training?”

At least he was considering the offer. Good.

“I don’t need another scientist,” Mycroft explained. “I’ve got more than enough of them working for me. I don’t need a director, either; the current one does an excellent job. What I’ll need is an archivist and chief administrator who can eventually replace Mr. Howarth. Your studies would be a good basis for such work. Are you willing to give it a thought?”

“I can’t promise anything,” Ianto answered after a very long pause. “But yeah, I’ll think about it.”


	8. Interlude #2 - Recreational Activities

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This picks up the loose end in the first Interlude. Obviously.

**INTERLUDE #2 – RECREATIONAL ACTIVITIES**

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in the study of his townhouse on Pall Mall, stripped to his shirtsleeves, rubbing his face tiredly. The first contact – and the following confrontation – with his son had worn him out, more even than a crash with Sherlock would.

In many things, Ianto seemed eerily like his younger self: smart, stubbornly independent, not backing off an inch but smooth enough to avoid any irreparable break-ups. He clearly wasn’t impressed either by his newfound father’s wealth or his power, which was refreshingly different from most people’s reaction. At the same time, though, that fact made it very difficult to manipulate him. Or to influence him in any manner.

And while Mycroft, for his part, preferred a strong-willed son who insisted on standing on his own two feet to some spineless little parasite who’d only be after his money or his influence, he _hated_ not being able to have him under control. 

Control was something he did very well… usually. Even when it came to Sherlock, one of the most uncontrollable forces of nature.

Mycroft allowed himself a bitter little chuckle. Here he’d been, worried sick if his son would be able to integrate in the Holmes family. Well, he could rest assured where _that_ problem was concerned. Ianto clearly didn’t _want_ to become part of the Holmes family. To abandon his former life for the eternal struggle with family obligations. For a family that didn’t particularly want to _have_ him in the first place.

Although he hadn’t outright rejected the idea of _working_ for Mycroft, so there probably was some hope left, after all.

Mycroft rubbed his burning eyes tiredly. It was such a mess! His private life, such as it was, had been rendered to shambles in a mere few weeks.

“You’re awfully tense, sir,” a pleasant tenor voice said right behind his back, and he nearly jumped in his seat. He hadn’t heard Captain Harkness enter his study, but there the man was, placing the weekly security report on his desk and giving him a searching look with those brilliant blue eyes. “Would you allow me to help?”

“I’m afraid I’m not up to your idea of recreational activities, Captain,” Mycroft replied tiredly. 

It was a known fact that for Captain Harkness recreation equalled sex (highly inventive sex, bordering on the avant-garde, as one of the male employees once put). Most of the time anyway. And no matter what Aunt Diane might think about the man, Mycroft really didn’t feel up to sexual gymnastics. Even if he had the custom of sleeping with the staff. Which he did not.

The answer earned him one of those wide, white smiles that almost hurt the eye. Quality US dental work could be a bit too much of the good thing sometimes.

“I was thinking more along the line of offering you a backrub, sir,” Captain Harkness said brightly. “I’m actually very good at those, according my mother… and everyone else who tried them, for that matter.”

Mycroft hesitated. He was very tense, that much was true. Tense enough that the accumulated stress would inevitably lead to a killer headache if he didn’t do anything about it. On the other hand, this could be a trick from Captain Harkness to get physical with him, couldn’t it?

But again, even if it _was_ – did he really care?

“A backrub would be lovely indeed,” he admitted.

Captain Harkness blinded him with another smile and unceremoniously began to roll up the sleeves of his plain blue cotton shirt. He owned at least a dozen of those shirts, all the same particular shade of blue that brought out the colour of his eyes most flatteringly.

As if he needed it!

“Just sit there and relax, sir, and let me take care of the rest,” he said encouragingly.

Mycroft pushed the staples of top secret files a bit further back, so that he could put his folded arms on the desktop and rest his head upon them. God, he was tired!

He was so far gone that he barely felt the shock when Captain Harkness reached around him and began to unbutton his waistcoat.

“You’re wearing far too many layers for a proper backrub, sir,” he murmured in Mycroft’s ear, his warm breath tickling his skin and making him shiver. “A shirt would be enough to protect your virtue, don’t you think?”

Mycroft really didn’t know how to answer _that_ , so he simply let Captain Harkness divest him of his waistcoat. His braces, too, were pulled down his arms and let to hang from the waistband of his trousers at the same time. Then he was allowed to resume his former position, and Captain Harkness finally put those large, warm hands on him.

The first gentle, probing touches already elicited a moan of him. He couldn’t even remember the last time he was touched like this. So gently. So carefully. As if he truly mattered. As if his comfort was really an issue.

The professional masseurs, whenever he found the time to indulge in a massage – which was rare enough by his workload – had never been so considerate. Their hands were hard, impersonal, almost cruel; their touch hurt more than it helped. So after a while he gave up on the idea entirely and rather endured the near-constant back pain.

Given enough time, one could get used to almost everything, after all.

Captain Harkness’s hands didn’t hurt him. Well, there _was_ some pain, understandably, as his back was hard with tension and the memory of decades-old hurts. But it was a good hurt; he couldn’t find a better word for it. Captain Harkness tried to loosen the muscles in his neck, shoulders and upper back by drumming his strong fingers along them like a pianist playing a particularly vigorous piece. Only when he felt the muscles begin to give in a little, only then did he start the actual kneading and rubbing. First on the surface, then digging his fingertips gradually deeper, finding one sore spot after another, loosening knotted muscles patiently.

By then, Mycroft was groaning continually. He hurt in places he’d long forgotten to exist, but – paradoxically – it felt so very good. Years of tension were seeping out of him gradually as those strong, warm hands kept kneading his now pliant flesh tirelessly. He was vaguely aware of the fact that he was making the most embarrassing noises of pleasure but he couldn’t bring up the energy to care. The treatment just felt too good.

“I like it how vocal you are when I lay my hands on you, sir,” Captain Harkness murmured into his ear, his breath hot on Mycroft’s now damp skin, the spicy scent of his shampoo or aftershave or whatever product it was filling Mycroft’s nose so completely that he could barely breathe. “I bet I could make you sing even louder for me.”

And with that, he reached around Mycroft’s boneless torso and pinched his nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt. Hard. At the same time he licked the sweat off Mycroft’s neck without warning.

The wet touch upon his neck, combined with the sharp pain lancing through his tormented nipples, shot directly to Mycroft’s groin, making him steel hard in a second. He couldn’t remember ever getting an erection so lightning-fast, not even in his youth. His somewhat hazed mind suddenly provided him with the mental image of himself, bent over his own desk, his trousers around his ankles and Captain Harkness shagging him within an inch of his life.

He very nearly came into his pants on the spot.

“Oh, I see you’re not so adverse to the idea,” Captain Harkness murmured, opening his trousers with one hand and grabbing him through the soft silk of his underwear with the other one.

Mycroft Holmes would deny to the end of his life that the high, keening sound following _that_ act came from his throat.

In the next moment he was indeed hauled over his desk, his trousers – including his underwear – yanked down to his ankles, and he could feel the thin rubber of a condom being rolled expertly onto his straining erection.

“We don’t want to make a mess of your state secrets, do we?” Captain Harkness murmured, pressing him down onto the desk with a hand on the small of his back.

Mycroft didn’t offer any resistance. He was being handled by an expert, and he wanted this. He wanted the control being wrestled away from him, wanted to be possessed by someone physically stronger than him, wanted to be taken without being asked first. It was a secret fantasy of him, a dangerous craving he’d never allowed to take the upper hand before.

But in this very moment, lying face-down and utterly helpless across his own desk, while his big, virile security chief was kneading his arse to make him relax for the main act, he understood those men – rich, powerful, important men – who’d go to Irene Adler to lay down their burden, at least for a short while.

He’d never do _that_ , of course. Aside from the fact that he was attracted to men, not women (and to big, strong, virile men like Captain Harkness, at that), becoming vulnerable to a ruthless woman like Irene Adler was a suicidal mistake. One that he would never allow himself, even if he’d been interested in the _professional scolding_ part of it.

Still, he could understand how liberating it was to submit on a deeply personal level when one had to make life and death decisions all the time. The higher one stood in the hierarchy, the greater the pressure grew, the heavier the responsibility weighed upon one’s shoulder. Mycroft’s decisions could be the making or the fall of the whole nation. Small wonder he never managed to get his eating disorder under control.

Yet now, lying bare-arsed and spread-eagled across his desk, with Captain Harkness’s slickened fingers probing his most private places, opening him up, stretching him for the much bigger intruder to come, first two fingers, then three, until the longest one finally reached that hidden spot inside him that hadn’t been touched for years and that made him see glowing stars in the darkness behind his tightly shut eyelids, he understood on a deep, almost animal level how liberating the loss of control could be.

The noises he made weren’t even remotely human anymore.

Then the questing fingers at the entrance of his body were replaced with something much bigger and heavier, and he groaned as he was being stretched to his limits. It hurt, despite all the careful prep work; it had been too long, he was practically a virgin again, so long had it been. And it had never been like this; never so personal. Hasty encounters in seedy clubs, the darkrooms in foreign countries where no-one could recognize him – they simply didn’t count.

“Don’t you _dare_ to stop!” he growled when he felt the invasion stop. It was too late to reconsider, he _needed_ this and he needed this _now_!

“I’m hurting you,” Captain Harkness murmured, still hesitating,

“Well, hurt me then, damn you!” he snapped, desperate for being subdued and thoroughly possessed. “I don’t need you to go gently on me! Do your worst!”

“This is a bad idea,” Captain Harkness muttered, but he obeyed nonetheless, and for a moment Mycroft thought he’d be split in two.

It had definitely been too long.

But then his pleasure spot was touched again, and the vice-like grip of his body suddenly relaxed around Captain Harkness, so that he could finally move within him. And move he did, with renewed vigour, hitting his sweet spot with every inward thrust, until Mycroft passed out from the intensity of his orgasm.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
When he came to, he was fully clothed again – well, save for his suit jacket, that is – and resting on the comfortable leather sofa of his study. He hurt deep within like a bitch (and he supposed he’d keep hurting for days to come), but the rest of his body was in a near-gelatinous state, and there was no trace of a headache.

Clearly, Captain Harkness’s recreational activities did have their advantage.

Opening his eyes, he saw the man sitting in one of the deep leather armchairs on the other side of the coffee table, watching him with worried blue eyes.

“Are you all right, sir?” he asked, when seeing that Mycroft was awake. “I got a bit carried away; I’m sorry. I never had anyone yielding so beautifully to me. It was a heady experience.”

Mycroft’s face felt hot from all the blood rushing there suddenly.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I might have difficulties sitting through some boring government meetings tomorrow – or is it today? – but it was definitely worth a little discomfort.”

“I’m sorry,” Captain Harkness said again. “I never wanted to hurt you, sir.”

“Nonsense,” Mycroft replied dismissively. “If I wanted something soft and pliant, I’d have booked one of those effeminate boys from a catalogue. I have no use for them. You gave me exactly what I needed.”

Captain Harkness nodded, accepting the declaration for face value and stood to help him rise from the couch gingerly. They were close enough for their breath to mingle; Captain Harkness’s smelt of peppermint.

“I’d like to kiss you, sir,” he murmured. “May I?”

A short, sharp laugh escaped from Mycroft; he was surprised that it didn’t sound bitter at all.

“Captain, you’ve just fucked mo so thoroughly that I won’t be able to walk straight for a week. I think we’re well beyond the phase of asking permission.”

“No, sir,” Captain Harkness replied. “That was different; something you _needed_ and I took care of your need. This… this is personal. This is for _me_ … if you allow it.”

His handsome face was serious and open, no wide, fake grin plastered across it. He’d given Mycroft what Mycroft needed and was clearly ready to do so again. What _he_ needed, what he _wanted_ was a simple kiss, and Mycroft felt that he owed the man that much.

“I do allow it,” he said simply. “Please help yourself.”

There was a smile – not the big, fake, thousand megawatt grin but a small, genuine one – and then those big, warm hands captured his face, pulling him closer. Soft lips covered his mouth, pressing against his lips in a surprisingly chaste kiss; then a warm, wet tongue slid into his involuntarily yielding mouth, filling it, exploring it, sucking the air from his lungs.

He made a strange little sound in the back of his throat. His hands came up on their own, grabbing the firm backside of Captain Harkness and grinding their crotches together.

“Don’t!” Captain Harkness warned, tearing his mouth away for a moment. “You definitely aren’t up for another round yet, sir, and if you keep doing _that_ , I can’t guarantee that I’d be able to hold back.”

“Promises, promises,” Mycroft grinned and kept doing _that_.

Captain Harkness rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“I’ve created a monster,” he complained. “That’s the problem with the repressed ones. As soon as they’d licked blood, they can’t be stopped anymore.”

“ _Problem_?” Mycroft asked, nibbling on his earlobe.

“At the moment? Yeah,” Captain Harkness gently but firmly freed himself from his boss’s possessive grip. “We both need sleep; at least a couple of hours of it. You’ve got several important meetings tomorrow, sir – well, _today_ , actually – and I’ll have to be awake enough to keep you safe, or Quilla will have me gelded.”

“Which would be a crying shame,” Mycroft agreed, reaching unceremoniously in the other man’s trousers to give the potentially endangered body parts an experimental squeeze. 

Captain Harkness’s eyes rolled back in his head and he almost came on the spot. 

“Very well, Captain,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “In order to save your... err… family jewels, I’ll be a good boy and retreat to my bedroom – alone. However, I want to make something very clear.”

“And that would be sir?” Captain Harkness asked politely.

As if he didn’t know!

“I’m aware of the fact that what happened between us was simple convenience,” Mycroft said slowly. “I assume my aunt set you up to it, and I’m grateful that she did. I enjoyed our… encounter immensely, but I’m not interpreting anything else into it. You can walk away from this right now; no questions asked, no changes in our working relationship. You can walk away from it at any time in the future, under the same conditions. But _if_ you choose to indulge in serving my needs again, as long as you do it, you’ll be off-limits for other… playmates. I do not share.”

Captain Harkness nodded, understanding the conditions perfectly.

“In your situation I wouldn’t either, sir,” he replied simply.

“Good,” Mycroft said. “Understand also that while you can indeed walk away from our… agreement any time you want, once you’ve done so, you’ll be walking away for good. There won’t be any coming back.”

Captain Harkness nodded again, not the least disturbed. “Understood, sir. “It’s a reasonable agreement.”

“Good,” Mycroft said again. “Let’s go sleep then. Work won’t take into consideration that we’ve used up a lot of energy tonight.”

“But in a very enjoyable way,” Captain Harkness grinned, helping him into his suit jacket. “Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Captain,” Mycroft allowed himself the momentary weakness of leaning against the solid, warm body behind him and filling his senses with the smell and the feel of the man who’d just so thoroughly possessed him.

Then he went to sleep indeed.


	9. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ianto learns some fundamental truths about his new family.

**CHAPTER 07 – REVELATIONS**

It took Ianto only a couple of weeks to realise that his father was an overbearing, controlling bastard with a hang for the dramatic. For the unnecessarily dramatic, in his eyes, but what did he know about acceptable behaviour among the obscenely rich?

The first sign of it was an official letter from one of the oldest, most respected banks, where he apparently had an account now… based on a newly arranged trust fund. The figure of said trust fund had his mind boggled. However, the letter explained, currently he wouldn’t be able to touch it directly. He only had the monthly alimony at his disposal – which was still enough to cover the rent of a much better flat (alone!), his study fees and other basic expanses like food or clothes.

It made him absolutely furious. Furious enough to fire off an angry text, telling his father that he didn’t need alms.

“Nonsense,” Mycroft Holmes said two hours later, when he finally found a ten-minute-window to call him back. “That money is yours by right. Had your mother told me about you, this would be exactly the sum I’d have paid her in the last twenty years. I take my responsibilities seriously, my boy.”

“I’m not your boy!” Ianto fumed. “And I can earn my living without your alms!”

“I’d assume that such immature temper tantrums are also part of being a Jones, wouldn't my own little brother be also prone to them,” his father replied in cold disdain. “You are being ridiculous, Ianto. Like it or not, you _are_ my progeny, and as such, you’d have been entitled to my support while growing up. That wasn’t an option back then, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s _your_ money, not mine. Feel free to give it all to charity once you’ve turned twenty-five, if you find it so burdensome. In the meantime, you might want to look for a flat that would be a bit more… refined than the fetid little hole in which you’re currently housing. Now that you can actually afford it.”

“And leave Wesley behind to fend for himself, which we both know he can’t do on his own?” Ianto countered icily. “Sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I’m not the sort of bloke who’d discard his mates the moment they’d no longer match his lifestyle.”

“I’m quite certain that Wesley wouldn’t mind sharing a more… acceptable flat with you,” his father answered. “I can imagine that he’s less comfortable with your current living conditions than you are. He’s grown up in what you’d call a posh home, after all.”

 _That_ silenced Ianto for a moment. He hadn’t considered that the cheap little bed-sit he saw as a lucky catch might have been a social disgrace for his roommate who indeed came from a posh family. Besides, if he was honest to himself he had to admit that using his father’s money to help _Wesley_ made it easier to accept said money.

“I’ll… consider it,” he said reluctantly, because it was painfully apparent that in the end he’d give in.

“Good,” Mycroft Holmes said in his smooth diplomat's voice, keeping any traces of satisfaction out of it. “You can do so while thinking about my job offer, too. I’ve taken the liberty to ask my assistant to send you a list of available flats in acceptable proximity to your school. You and your roommate can check them out and chose the most suitable one. In the meantime you might want to do some shopping. The Institute does have a strict dress code, I’m afraid. Wesley might actually prove helpful in this matter, given that he knows the expectations of his own social circle.”

“Thank you,” Ianto replied somewhat coldly, “but I think at the age of nineteen I’m quite capable of shopping for clothes on my own. We haven’t all grown up with a numerous staff doing all the mundane tasks for us. I’ve more or less run our household since the age of twelve while my Tad was labouring at Debenham’s; I’m sure I’ll manage going to the clothes’ shop alone, too. Good day, sir.”

He hung up on his father, and Mycroft sighed wearily. The boy was proving to be more difficult than he’d expected, and the last thing he needed right now was another complication. It was time to call in the cavalry.

“Call in Captain Harkness,” he said to Quilla. “There’s something the two of you need to know; for various reasons.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
If Ianto thought the issue of shopping for clothes – or that of a new flat – was closed, he soon learned to think again. Right after the end of his shift at _Angelo’s,_ when he was picked up by the now-familiar sleek black car of his father’s.

However, his father wasn’t in the car this time. Just the elegant woman of the many names and Captain Harkness in the driver’s seat.

“We need to talk,” Lisa/Quilla/whatever said calmly. “Please get in the car.”

Ianto shook his head.

“Nah, I don’t think so. You want to speak? Then let’s speak here.”

“This is not the right place for that,” she said. “Please, don’t be melodramatic. We aren’t going too far; just to the _Criterion Restaurant_.”

Ianto hesitated for a moment, then nodded abruptly. Before getting into the car, though, he called Wesley.

“Wes? Ianto. Listen, the ninjas of Mr. Holmes want to chat with me. We’re going to the _Criterion Restaurant_. Should I not check in with you in the next hour, call the police. And Wes? No chickening out; I'm counting on you. Ta.”

“I assure you, this isn’t necessary,” Quilla said when he climbed into the back seat next to her.

“Perhaps not,” Ianto replied, “but I’m not taking any chances. Wes might be a frightened rabbit, but somebody with a posh family can’t vanish so easily without a trace like nobodies; like me.”

“You’re grossly paranoid,” she commented, texting away on her phone rapidly. “Congratulations. You’ll make Mr. Holmes proud one day.”

“Yeah, cos _that_ ’s my highest ambition in life,” Ianto countered dryly.

At that, she _did_ look up from her phone for a moment.

‘You can’t imagine how ambitious such a goal would be,” she said in utter seriousness. “But you will when you learn to know Mr. Holmes a little better.”

Ianto still wasn’t persuaded. “I’ll take you word for that.”

“You should,” she replied seriously. “I’ve worked for him for almost a decade by now. I know him better than most people; certainly a lot better than his own family, with one exception.”

“The infamous Aunt Diane?” Ianto guessed.

That earned him a surprised look. “Mr. Holmes already told you about her? Good; cause we’re actually on our way to meet her.”

Ianto rolled his eyes. “Is that a Holmes thing, kidnapping people from the street when they want a friendly little chat?” he demanded. “Cos I have to tell you, it’s bloody annoying.”

“Yes, I imagine it is,” she replied without remorse. “But, you see, Mr. Holmes is a very busy man; and Dame Diane wanted a discreet meeting. Had she appeared at _Angelo’s_ , that would have been anything but discreet.”

“Why?” Ianto asked in bewilderment.

“You’ll understand once you’ve met her,” she replied. “Ah here we are.”

The car pulled up in front of the beautiful white neo-Byzantine building housing the _Criterion Restaurant_ – a rather posh one by the looks of it – and Quilla shooed Ianto out of the car.

“We’ll go right in,” she told Captain Harkness who was wearing a tailored suit tonight instead of that outdated greatcoat of his (apparently, working for Ianto’s father paid well). “Come after us when you’ve parked the car, will you?”

Captain Harkness nodded and drove away to the parking lot nearest to Piccadilly Circus. Ianto was mildly surprised that the man was supposed to join them but wisely kept his mouth shut. He didn’t know the power dynamics within his father’s staff, and the last thing he needed was to insult somebody in an important position.

Just cos he was the illegitimate son of their boss it didn’t mean they couldn’t make his life hell if he made them mad.

Quilla led him into one of the most startling rooms he’d seen in his young life; one with a curved ceiling, decorated in tiny glittering golden ties that lent it a peculiar night-time glamour and arcades of slender marble pillars framing it lengthwise. Small, round tables, each decked for four with crispy white and with the finest silverware stood in double rows, waiting for the customers who, however, seemed a bit sparsely represented tonight. 

Quilla crossed the main room and steered him directly to the “Long Bar”, with its plush red velvet armchairs and the pulsing life of the Piccadilly visible through the revolving doors. There were more people present, mostly well-dressed, but some in casual clothes, too. The woman by whose table they stopped, however, seemed anything but casual.

She looked to be some indeterminate age between forty and sixty, although she was probably older, based on the fine laugh lines around her dark eyes. She was tall, slim and trim, with surprisingly broad shoulders and carried herself with the slightly rigid posture of a professional soldier, although she didn’t wear a uniform.

What she did wear was a vintage skirt suit in soft beige, based on the fashion of the 1950s, consisting of a pencil skirt and a somewhat extravagantly cut blazer with a red silk blouse. It all seemed very simple, yet Ianto knew that a model like this would have cost a small fortune. She wore her dark hair in a French twist, hidden under a small, feathered hat, and her lipstick was the same blood red as her blouse. Her whole appearance spoke of money – lots of it – but also of exquisite taste.

When she saw their approach, she looked up form her glass of red wine and smiled.

“Ianto!” she said, her voice pleasantly deep, with the slight rasp of a habitual smoker in it. “So good of you to have come!”

“As if I had much of a choice,” Ianto replied with a faint smile. “This must be the Holmesian way to meet people, apparently.”

The aunt of his father laughed.

“I know,” she said. “We can be terribly inconsiderate; not to mention arrogant and selfish. How about I promise you never to have you kidnapped again?”

“That would be a beginning,” Ianto agreed, and they laughed.

“It’s a deal,” Dame Diane declared. “Very well, children, have a seat and order something to drink. Jack will be here in a minute, and then we can talk.”

“Talk about what?” Ianto asked with a frown.

“About my nephew,” Dame Diane replied. “Your father. Oh, don’t worry,” she added, catching Ianto’s alarmed glance in Quilla’s direction. “She and Jack are informed. Mycroft told them the truth.”

“And the thought of asking _me_ whether I wanted it to become public knowledge didn’t occur to him, of course,” Ianto commented darkly.

Dame Diane rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Telling his closest co-workers isn’t making it public knowledge. These two know more about him than anyone else; including me, and I even work with him on occasion.”

“I still don’t see why they’d need to know something I haven’t even told my sister yet,” Ianto returned stubbornly.

“Yet?” Dame Diane repeated with an elegantly arched eyebrow. “But you intend to tell her eventually, yes?”

Ianto shrugged. “It will be inevitable, after a while. Whatever you might think about us, lowly peasants, we’re not all stupid. Rhi clearly isn’t, despite the fact that she's married an idiot,” but his small half-smile revealed that he was actually quite fond of his brother-in-law. “She _will_ realise that I no longer have to turn around each penny twice. And I’m not gonna lie to her.”

“Are you really sure it will be wise to tell her the truth?” Quilla asked.

“She’s my _sister_ ,” Ianto replied, his annoyance obvious.

“Your cousin, actually,” she corrected, but Ianto shook his head.

“No; in every way that counts she’s my sister. We grew up together, played together, went to school together, shared the pox, watched our Mam slide deeper and deeper into depressions, watched Tad drown his pain in the bottle… even if we weren’t related by blood, _that_ would have forged us together…”

“And yet she left you alone with an alcoholic at the age of twelve,” Quilla said pointedly. Ianto shrugged again.

“She was seventeen and in love; I never blamed her. She needed to live her own life… not that it was an easy one. I managed; and it made me strong. So, you see,” he added with a wry grin in Dame Diane’s direction, “I always had plenty of family around me. Even if it wasn’t as posh as yours.”

That came out a bit harsher than intended, but Dame Diane took no offence.

“I don’t blame you for clinging to your independence,” she said. “Personally, I find that a good thing. However, you need to know a bit more about our side of the family before you and dear Mycroft decide if you want to make your… err… connection ‘public knowledge’ as you so eloquently put it.”

“Why?” Ianto accepted the coke from the waitress with a polite nod. “To be properly impressed with their – _your_ – importance?”

“No,” she answered seriously. “Because _you_ carry that heritage in you, too, and you need to know what you might have to deal with. Oh, Jack, good,” she added in a much lighter tone when Captain Harkness strode in confidently and accepted from him a kiss on the cheek. “Do sit down, love. We were just about to tell young Ianto some basic facts about our family.”

“That ought to be interesting,” Captain Harkness made himself comfortable with a bottle of mineral water. “What do you know about the Holmes family, Mr Jones?”

“Only what Mr Williams could find out for my Tad, and _that_ wasn’t much,” Ianto admitted.

Dame Diane nodded in satisfaction.

“Of course not. We value our privacy, and as both dear Mycroft and I are involved with the Home Office in various ways, we have the means to enforce that said privacy is respected, no matter what.”

“Meaning that Mr. Holmes can go a _very_ long way to control what kind of information is allowed to come out and what isn’t,” Quilla added.

“You mean he’s some sort of spy or whatnot?” Ianto asked, frowning.

“No,” Dame Diane replied firmly. “Your father, dear, is a civil servant. Specialised in troubleshooting, which is why he prefers to remain in the second line of the Civil Service. It allows him to blend into the background and makes him all the more efficient.”

“That’s not very reassuring,” Ianto said dryly. “If I remember correctly, James Bond was a civil servant, too.”

“An apt metaphor,” Captain Harkness grinned. “Of course without the licence to kill. The British government doesn’t condone assassinations.”

“Not officially, anyway,” Quilla added. “Besides, there are minions for that sort of dirty job.”

“Like the two of you?” Ianto asked sarcastically.

She shook her head. “Oh no, we’re not mere minions. We’ve been promoted for quite some time.”

Ianto didn’t feel particularly impressed by that statement.

“So you’re his PA and Captain America here is his chief honcho,” he said with a shrug. “Still counts as minions in my book.”

“Yeah, because you’re a young, ignorant fool who’s no idea what he’s talking about,” Captain Harkness said bluntly. “So let’s get a few things straight, boy. Your father works in disaster management. That means working very closely with both MI5 and MI6 to remove threats to national security. He’s not an actual part of either department, though; he is, on paper, a high level minor civil servant, and they consult him in cases where they need his abilities.”

“What abilities?” Ianto asked.

“You’ve met Sherlock, I’m told,” Dame Diane said and Ianto nodded. “I assume he did his deduction spiel on you, then.”

Ianto nodded again. “Part of, yeah. He was fairly distracted by his case. I looked him up on the internet, though, and found that website of his: _The Science of Deduction_ … which is _really_ odd. The man is clearly a genius, but clearly a mad one. Are you telling me that my… that Mr. Holmes is the same?”

“You must understand one thing,” Dame Diane replied. “Both Mycroft and Sherlock were born, due to a rare combination of genes, with heightened senses and a genius-level intelligence. They both can notice details at a fleeting glance most people would need hours to find… if ever. But it comes with a price.”

“Sensory overload?” Ianto offered uncertainly. That earned him surprised, even impressed looks from the other three, and he shrugged. “Seemed logical with heightened senses.”

“You are right, of course,” Dame Diane sighed. “Mycroft has always been fairly apt in channelling those impulses, but Sherlock… it took him decades to deal with them, and his methods were often not very helpful. But that’s neither here nor there. I wasn’t just speaking about the senses, though. I meant deductive abilities, memory, observation skills… their brain capacity is way beyond the average.”

“And that comes with a price, too, I guess,” Ianto said.

“Nature likes to even out things,” she replied. “When you’re well above the average in one area, you’ll end up well beneath the average in the other one, if you understand what I mean.”

Ianto nodded slowly. “I think so, yeah. You mean that if someone is intellectually outstanding, they often turn out emotionally stunted, right? My… Mr. Holmes does come over as fairly distant.”

“That’s public school education for you,” Dame Diane said. “The boys learn at a tender age that sowing their emotions in public is gauche, rude and a sign of poor breeding. Social graces, manners and courtesy, on the other hand, are highly prized. After all, ‘manners maketh the man’ as it’s said.”

Ianto remembered Sherlock stiffening in discomfort as Angelo, in his true Italian exuberance, had embraced him, and nodded in understanding.

“The manners part didn’t seem to have stuck with Sherlock, though,” he commented.

“Nonsense,” Dame Diane waved off his objections. “Sherlock knows well enough how to behave. He just chooses not to, out of sheer impatience with people who’re less intelligent than he is.”

“That would mean just about everyone, save for his brother, though,” Ianto said. “He must make enemies by the dozens each day. No wonder you guys are spying on him all the time.”

“That’s one of the reasons,” Quilla corrected. “The family of Mr. Holmes is generally protected due to his position.”

“Yes, I know,” Ianto said. “He told me something complicated about it. It’s still creepy. But if he watches everyone and everything, who watches _him_? Or is there a rule about the watcher not needing to be watched?”

“On the contrary,” Captain Harkness said. “He needs to be protected, better than most other people, because he’s one of the few who keep this country running, despite the incompetence of most career politicians, beginning with Harold Saxon. So Quilla and me do our best to keep him safe and sane by any means necessary, so that he can do his job.”

“And how, exactly, are you doing that?” Ianto asked doubtfully.

“By preparing his schedule and reminding him of his appointments,” Quilla counted down on her perfectly manicured fingers. “By seeing that he always gets the exact kind and amount of information to do his work. By force-feeding him if we have to, confiscating his cigarettes if he smokes too much, and forcing him to rest by… err… unorthodox methods if we have to,” she gave Captain Harkness a meaningful glance that Ianto couldn’t interpret. “By seeing that the security systems run at peak efficiency and always, _always_ knowing where Sherlock is and what he’s up to.”

“Sounds like a full-time job,” Ianto commented. “But really, is this not a bit of overkill? He’s a grown man, for God’s sake; he ought to know when to eat or to rest.”

“He should,” Dame Diane agreed, “but he doesn’t. Which is why he needs his minders. You must understand that while both my nephews are certifiable geniuses, they’re really bad at taking care of themselves.”

“Or allowing others to take care of them,” Quilla added. “So we have to be very sneaky if we don’t want to get fired. Because who’d keep him going then?”

“I thought he was just displaying the stiff upper lip that’s required by posh families,” Ianto said.

“Early institutionalisation played a role, for sure,” Dame Diane agreed. “But the roots lay in their childhood. Violet never tolerated emotional scenes (although not even she could stop Sherlock’s temper tantrums), and the years at boarding school only exacerbated this tendency towards burying their emotions.”

“Well, that certainly explains a lot,” Ianto allowed with a shrug. “But I still don’t understand what kind of significance it’s supposed to have for _me_. Mr. Holmes certainly doesn’t have any particular feelings for me, hidden or otherwise, save perhaps a healthy amount of embarrassment; and frankly, it’s mutual. I wish Tad had taken the secret with him to the grave. It would have been better for all parties involved.”

“Perhaps,” Dame Diane said. “But he didn’t do so, and I for my part am glad that he chose not to.”

Ianto gave her a doubtful look. “You do? Forgive me, ma’am, but that’s a bit hard to believe.”

Dame Diane nodded. “I see why it would be – from _your_ vantage point anyway. It’s different for us, Holmeses, though. Until now, we all thought the line would end with Mycroft’s generation, seeing that neither he nor Sherlock had any children… or any indication to have some. Learning about your existence was a shock for us all, certainly, but mostly because of the not knowing about you for twenty years part. Had we known, the family would have done their duty. We take care of our own.”

“I’m glad you didn’t know,” Ianto replied darkly. “At least I had a normal childhood. Granted, it was not always easy, but it gave me the chance to grow up like a human being; not like some sort of robot.”

The unfriendly glares given him by Quilla and Captain Harkness made him realise he’d been more than a little rude and he reddened in embarrassment. Dame Diane, though, just laughed at him.

“Is that how you see us?” she asked, amused. “As robots? Well, I must admit that we _might_ make such an impression at first sight – and you haven’t even seen the worst of us. Just wait until you meet Violet and her omnipotent housekeeper!”

“I’d rather pass if you don’t mind, ma’am,” Ianto said honestly. “I think I’ve seen as much of the family as I’ll likely be able to stomach at any given time. No offence intended.”

“None taken,” Dame Diane assured him. “I can understand that we must seem high maintenance to you; in all honesty, we _are_. But I also know that once Mycroft has overcome his first shock – which might take a while yet – he’ll grow into his role as a father gradually. You are more than just a surprise for him, Ianto; you’re a gift.”

“Yeah, sure,” Ianto laughed, but Dame Diane cut him in the word.

“No, my boy. I’ve listened to you and believe me, I understand your doubts. Now give me the courtesy of listening to what _I have_ to say. Your father is a great man; one who never got duly appreciated by his family. Violet was always preoccupied with herself, and then with her favourite baby boy, and Richard… Richard was always too busy with the eight billion things he was doing at the same time, and his only concern was to prove himself to his own wife. I did what I could for Mycroft, but I’m not his mother, and I was often away while he was young. He’s accepted that he’d never have a family of his own, which he always saw as a failure but thought it better than living a lie.”

“You mean cos he’s… err… into guys, mostly?” Ianto asked.

Dame Diane was truly surprised. “He told you?”

Ianto shrugged. “He didn’t have to. I pretty much figured it out on my own.”

“You’re very observant,” Dame Diane said. “In fact, you already show a few Holmes traits. You could fit in quite well, eventually… _if_ you choose to.”

“I have my doubts about that, ma’am,” Ianto said dryly. “It’s enough to take a closer look at my roommate to see that I’d never fit into such a posh family; and frankly, I don’t particularly want to, either.”

“I didn’t mean Violet’s stiff and boring tea parties,” Dame Diane said, smiling with faint irony. “Being a Holmes means so much more than boring conversations and Saville Row clothing. Look at me: I chose to become a pilot, at a time when most women of my social status only had proper marriages on their minds. My brother – your grandfather – was a name-worthy scientist who ran a scientific institute and served his country as a civil servant at the same time. And your own father; he’s managed to protect this country from threats those ridiculous conspiracy theorists couldn’t come up with in their worst nightmares, using his vast intellect and negotiation skills alone. Being a Holmes is a great opportunity to use all your skills at their full capacity, cause the name literally opens doors that would remain closed otherwise. Are you truly going to let those chances slip through your fingers, just because you don’t like our attitude? And are you gonna deny Mycroft the chance to learn how to be a father? He’s willing to give it a try – are _you_?”

“I’m not sure,” Ianto replied honestly. “I’m content with being who I am. I don’t want to become somebody else. I want to achieve what I can on my own, not cos my father has connections.”

Dame Diane nodded. “That is very ambitious of you. Well, you don’t need to worry. Mycroft will never put you into any position you won’t deserve – or cannot fill. He’s a great believer of having the right people in the right places,” she gestured towards the other two. “Look at them. They reached their position through hard work; and they’re still working hard to keep it, every single day. You’ll have to prove yourself like everybody else. All you’ll be given are opportunities. What you make of them, that will be up to you.”

Ianto was saved from the necessity to give an answer (which he didn’t have at the moment) by a sharp _ping_ sound, with which his phone signalled an upcoming text message.

“Sorry,” he murmured, fishing out the phone to check the message. It was from Wes.

_Everything all right? WWP._

He smiled and texted back. _Fine. I’ll be back within the hour. IJ._

Then he looked at Dame Diane apologetically. “My roommate is getting restless. I better go before he calls the police.”

“Not that it would do you – either of you – any good,” Quilla commented dryly. “Very well, Jack will take you home in a moment. Don’t forget that you’re scheduled for a visit in the Torchwood Institute on Saturday. Do you have any decent clothes you can wear? Suits are obligatory for male employees – _or_ visitors.”

“I think I can manage,” Ianto replied with a shrug.

“I hope so,” she gave him a stern look. “I’ll be accompanying you, and I do have high standards, you know.”

“Is that supposed to frighten me? Cos it doesn’t,” Ianto stood and kissed the hand of his great-aunt gallantly. “Ma’am, it has been… interesting, but I really have to go now.”

Dame Diane nodded graciously. “Of course, my boy. I hope next time I won’t have to _send_ for you; I find your company very refreshing.”

She took a business card from her wallet and handed it to him.

“Feel free to call if you want to learn more about us.”


	10. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ianto pays Torchwood Tower a visit.

**CHAPTER 08 – THE TOWER**

Two days later Quilla called Ianto to remind him of his scheduled visit at Torchwood Tower. They agreed that she would pick him up in Saturday morning; there were no lessons at university during the weekend, but the Institute apparently worked in full shifts, important research being what it was.

Knowing that he was expected to make a proper appearance, Ianto had taken both his suits to the dry cleaner’s a few days earlier, together with his dress shirts, and on Friday evening he and Wesley gave the freshly pressed and ironed pieces the critical eye. Ianto’s suits were fairly common ones from _Marks & Spencer_ – one sombre black and one charcoal grey with navy blue pinstripes – but they had been fitted by Ifan Jones, so they looked better than the usual warehouse products.

“I’d wear the pinstriped one,” Wesley judged. “It’s more elegant; and your father did a good job with it. Or you could buy a new one, now that you've got that generous stipend.”

That was the official explanation for the sudden change of Ianto’s financial status: a scholarship from the Holmes estate. As the estate actually did support promising young students from time to time, no-one asked questions.

Ianto shook his head. “No; this is who I am – _what_ I am. If it’s not good enough for them, then there’s no point in trying, is there?”

“Perhaps,” Wesley admitted reluctantly. But it was clear that he didn’t agree with his friend.

For him, keeping up appearances was of great importance, appearances being the only thing still left for his family, struggling as they were due to the sluggish economy. He found it hard to understand that Ianto wouldn’t want to look more than he actually was. The thought that Ianto was in fact comfortable with his situation didn’t even occur to him, as he himself was _not_.

Ianto smiled, reading his friend’s mobile face like an open book. Where the stiff upper lip was concerned, public school education had clearly failed with Wesley Wyndham-Price. He obviously suffered from confidence issues and really sucked at hiding his uncertainties. Ianto liked him nonetheless, because he was disarmingly honest and very loyal.

Beyond that, he was also an invaluable guide for Ianto in the higher social circles where the young Welshman was forced to navigate now. He knew everyone at least from hearsay, and could get useful information if needed… gossip, mostly, that Ianto himself wouldn’t have been told. Not yet anyway. Not until his... acquaintance with the Holmes family would become an accepted fact.

It was decided therefore that Ianto would wear the pinstriped suit, which had the advantage of being equipped with a waistcoat, unlike the black one. As all three of his dress shirts were plain white and he possessed exactly one pair of black dress shoes, Wesley concentrated on the meagre choice of ties next.

Ianto was planning to wear the red one, but Wesley shook his head in alarm.

“No, you can’t do that!” he protested. “With the white shirt and the blue pinstripes you’d look like the Union Jack! No; wear the navy blue one… do you have a suitable pocket square, by the way?”

Ianto gave him an alarmed look. “A _what_?”

Wesley rolled his eyes behind those geeky, gold-rimmed glasses.

“Wait a minute!” he rummaged in a cardboard box on his side of the wardrobe and produced a small square of paisley silk, arranging it decoratively in the breast pocket of Ianto’s pinstriped suit. Then he held up the navy blue tie (that had diagonal dark blue and white stripes) and, checking on the decorative contrast of colours, he nodded in satisfaction. “Yes, this will do nicely.”

Ianto watched him in amusement. “I’m not a rich dandy, Wes; and I don’t want to look one, either.”

“Nonsense,” Wesley waved off his protests impatiently. “Little details are _important_. Every rich idiot can _buy_ an expensive suit. _Wearing_ it properly is what makes a true gentleman.”

“Yeah, but I’m _not_ a true gentleman, and you know that,” Ianto reminded him, smiling.

“You can _learn_ to be one,” Wesley replied seriously. “In fact, you will have to, if you keep socialising with the Holmes family.”

“I’m not really sure I _want_ to,” Ianto muttered.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Wesley said. “It’s a great opportunity to be noticed by them. They avoid the spotlight, but they are unobtrusively powerful in the background; and they are very loyal to those found worthy their attention. This could be the making of your future. I know of a lot of young people who got picked for the Institute right out from university and made a steady career, either as scientists or in administration, despite being of common stock. You can do it, too; unless you ruin it, out of some sort of stupid pride.”

“Look at the bright side,” Ianto grinned. “If I fail to impress them, they might consider taking _you instead.”_

Wesley shook his head. “Unlikely. I don’t have the right mindset for that kind of work. It’s not meek little nerds they’re looking for. No; this is _your_ chance – make the most of it.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Ianto was more than a little touched by Wesley’s unwavering loyalty and decided to follow his friend’s advice. If the Institute regularly picked promising young students out of university, then he had no reason to let such a chance slip through his fingers. Even if he’d been chosen for his relation to Mycroft Holmes, instead of his abilities that still needed to be fully tested.

Oh, he _had_ already been tested during the recent weeks. Mr. Howarth had ordered memory tests for both him and a couple of other students, including Wesley. But after the first two series of tests, only he had been called back for further testing. 

It was now attested that he indeed possessed a photographic memory, and he was now being taught various techniques that enabled him to order his memories methodically and store the insignificant ones in far-away, rarely used corners of his mind, where they could be found if necessary but wouldn’t bother him otherwise.

“There are ways to delete unnecessary trivia that just clutters up your mind,” Mr Howarth had explained, “but I wouldn’t suggest trying to do so. Not until you’ve become better trained in dealing with your own thought processes. _Much_ better trained.”

Not wanting to end up with gaping holes in his mind, Ianto was more than willing to leave such things alone for the time being. But he had to admit that the new techniques Mr. Howarth was teaching him _had_ helped to become more efficient in learning and helped along his observation skills as well. 

Perhaps working for the Torchwood Institute _would_ prove a good career choice… even if his father chose _not_ to acknowledge him officially.

Truth be told, Ianto would have preferred to work for his father – or rather for the Institute, as he had no political ambitions whatsoever – like everyone else. That would allow him to remain himself, more or less, and have a good, steady income, without family obligations. Even though he found Dame Diane oddly charming.

He had the feeling, however, that Mycroft Holmes would not give up his only heir so readily, now that he’d found him. And if Mycroft Holmes chose to shout from the rooftops of London that Ianto Jones was, in fact, his natural son, there was nothing Ianto cold have done against it.

As there was no use worrying about something that hadn’t happened yet, Ianto made a conscious effort to put his concerns out of the way and tried to focus on his upcoming visit at the Torchwood Institute. Internet research hadn’t yielded much (unsurprisingly) aside from an extremely short summary of Torchwood’s two-hundred-year-old history and an impressively long list of scientific achievements and discoveries for which the Institute had been credited during that time. Apparently, Torchwood had ridden the highest waves of the industrial revolution ever since, always selling their patents to the highest bidder and never getting involved in the actual production. They seemed to be very good at finding new markets, too.

What surprised Ianto most was the fact that one couldn’t easily find the connection between Torchwood and the Holmes family. As the actual founder of the Institute, no lesser person was named than Her Royal Majesty Queen Victoria; at that time the labs had apparently been located somewhere in Scotland, on the Torchwood estate that had been owned by the McLeish family (related to the Holmeses from the maternal side) and had only been moved to London in the 20th century. The Institute was now officially located in Canary Wharf, but Ianto had the suspicion that there would be other – rather extensive – branches scattered all over Greater London.

Checking the lists of executive directors showed the name of at least one Holmes all the time, of course, but the Institute was apparently owned by various companies that were owned by other companies themselves, leading to a sheer unsupervisable conglomerate of owners, with vague yet definite ties to the government. Ianto didn’t doubt that the Holmeses ultimately stood at the end of each thread, but _proving_ that would have been very hard. Near impossible, in fact.

He began to get an idea of just how rich and powerful his newly found family truly was. It almost made him sick to the stomach. Still, it was a good chance to find solid, profitable work, so that he wouldn’t need his father’s direct financial help to keep himself fed and clothed… and hopefully support Rhi and her family, given enough time. 

So he was determined _not_ to ruin his chance. Not yet anyway; not until he saw anything at Torchwood that he could not reconcile with his conscience.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
With that decision made, he was more than a little nervous when the now-familiar black car pulled up in front of their building. This time the driver was a spiky-haired blond young man whom Quilla introduced as Jake Simmonds. She gave Ianto’s outfit a stern once-over, then nodded in satisfaction and told him to get in the car. She was wearing her little black dress, as always, and was already texting away on her phone when Ianto got it.

“Everything is settled,” she then said. “They’re awaiting us.”

Ianto had never been to Canary Wharf before, despite the fact that his university had an office there. He had to admit that the photos seen on the Internet hadn’t even come close to the real thing. Quilla made him the favour of letting him out in front of the impressive building that rose from its surroundings like a crystal spike, to give him a proper impression of its true dimensions.

“Here it is,” she said. “One Canada Square. Well, that is the public name for it. But to those in the know, it's Torchwood Tower.”

“Does the whole building belong to the Institute?” Ianto asked, eyeing the numerous signs at the main entrance with interest.

Quilla nodded. “Yes, of course. The other companies and firms are noted as partial owners of Torchwood, but in the end, every thread comes together in the same hands.”

“I don’t really have to guess _whose_ hands, right?” Ianto said.

“The final decision _is_ his, in every important matter, of course,” Quilla agreed. “But he’s not the single owner. Several family members and even trusted employees have their shares. It’s complicated, but I’m sure Mr. Ellis will be happy to explain you everything in minute detail when he gets the chance. He’s really good at that; and as a student of economics, you even have the chance to understand it, unlike most people. Let’s go in. It’s not wise to make Yvonne Hartmann wait.”

“She’s the Director of the Institute, isn’t she?” Ianto asked, following her through the rotating glass door.

“She’s been for the last eleven years,” Quilla replied. “Before that, she used to work for MI5, specialised on industrial espionage, money laundering and other unpleasant things. She’s very friendly on the surface, but never let her easy-going manners fool you. She has a titanium spine and is absolutely ruthless when it comes to doing her job. Which is why Mr. Holmes hired her in the first place,” she added, smiling. “Or _me_ , for that matter.”

“Sounds encouraging,” Ianto muttered while Quilla navigated him through the highly sophisticated security system and had him equipped with a temporary visitor’s ID; one that had his photo, his fingerprints and he couldn’t even guess what else.

“This is valid for the next twelve hours only,” she explained. “If you get employed by the Institute, you’ll get a permanent access card; one that would only work for you. And if you and Mr. Holmes come to an… err… deeper understanding, you’ll get one of these,” she showed him her ring.

“How many such rings exist?” Ianto asked as they stepped into the lift cabin, which started upwards with them with a fairly alarming speed.

The word _turbolift_ popped into his mind.

“To this day, only three,” Quilla answered. ”And not even Jack’s allows him full access to all areas.”

“Yours does, though?” Ianto guessed. She nodded.

“Yes. I need to act in Mr. Holmes’s stead sometimes, when he’s hindered by government business. But even my full access underlies temporary limitations and has to be renewed every two months.”

“It’s like Fort Knox here,” Ianto commented, impressed.

Quilla gave him a disbelieving look.

“Are you kidding? It’s a lot better secured!” she exclaimed.

In the next moment the lift came to an abrupt stop on the top level of the tower and the sliding doors opened noiselessly. They stepped out right into a large, airy office, in which several young, well-dressed people sat at fully computerized desks and attempted not having taken notice of them.

Another office, smaller yet very elegantly furnished, was separated from the main area by a glass parturition, and an elegant blonde woman in her late thirties or early forties came out of it, wearing a tailored skirt suit and a pearl necklace that seemed the genuine item. If it was, it had probably cost a fortune, just like her suit. She moved around on her high heals with the confidence of a woman who hadn’t known any other footwear for at least a decade.

“Quilla, dear!” she enthused, greeting the PA of Ianto’s father with the obligatory kiss in the air, half an inch away from any actual touch. “How good to see you again, so soon! And this is young Mr. Jones, I understand.”

She shook Ianto’s hand enthusiastically. Her grip was surprisingly firm and her blue eyes remained cool and calculating. Still, she appeared friendly enough.

“Director Hartmann,” Ianto said politely. “It’s good of you to have us here.”

“Yvonne, please,” she insisted, but Ianto tilted his head to the side.

“That wouldn’t be proper, ma’am,” he said. “I’m just a visitor, after all.”

Yvonne gave him a long, searching look. Then she smiled at Quilla.

“I like him,” she said. “So rare is it for young people to have manners… present company excluded, of course,” she added, smiling at her staff. “Well, I’d offer you coffee, but we still haven’t had our espresso machine replaced, and no-one knows how to use that monstrous relic from the previous century. We’re stuck with instant, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps Mr Jones can be of assistance,” Quilla suggested. “He has a great affinity for old coffee machines.”

“Oh?” Yvonne turned to Ianto in pleasant surprise. “Would you mind giving it a try, Mr Jones? We haven’t had a decent cup of coffee for _months_.”

“I can take a look, of course,” Ianto answered. “But it all depends on the shape of the machine. And we’d need the good beans for good coffee.”

“Oh, we’ve got quite a selection here,” Yvonne assured him. “Addy can show you to the kitchen; Quilla and I have a few things to discuss anyway before I’d give you the grand tour. You’ll do it for me, Addy, won’t you?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
A lovely young black woman rose from one of the compu8ter desks, smiling.

“Of course, Yvonne, I’d love to,” she came over and shook Ianto’s hand. “I’m Adeola Oshodi, one of Yvonne’s PAs. Come, I’ll introduce you to the others, and then you can take a look at the coffee monster.”

She was funny, Ianto had to admit. In the next five minutes he got introduced to half a dozen young people, all working for the admin staff, none of them much older than himself. One of the guys, whom Addy called Gareth, was obviously her boyfriend, while another one, by the name of Matthew Crane, was clearly a technician, appointed to watch the internal security systems and provide the scientists with whatever they needed, from coffee through gossip to actual data.

Addy then took him one level deeper, where a well-equipped kitchen was established to provide the Torchwood Director and her guests with snacks and beverages during the meetings. There, next to the obviously broken esperesso machine, stood a _Fraema_ – a model that was even older than the one at _Angelo’s_. It was in a spotless state, gleaming like a piece of art; clearly, it hadn’t been used for a very long time.

“You really know how to make this thing work?” Addy asked doubtfully. “It looks so _complicated_!”

Ianto smiled at her.

“I’m an experienced barista,” he said. “If none of the parts are missing, I certainly can make her work.”

“ _Her_?” Addy grinned. Ianto raised an eyebrow.

“A _Fraema_ is like an old lady of good breeding; she requires respect and good care,” he replied, examining the machine already, checking it to the tiniest parts, and then nodded in satisfaction. “She appears to be complete. Now, show me your beans, and we can give it a try.”

Addy still seemed more than a bit unsure, but she showed him the selection of their coffee beans. One of the available sorts met Ianto’s high expectations, and five minutes later the _Fraema_ fired up, for the first time in decades.

“Oh, she’s working like a charm,” Ianto crooned, adding freshly ground coffee and water. “I guess she’ll need ten minutes to produce the results. Time enough to prepare the cups for the ladies upstairs. Do you have liquid cream here? That’s the only thing Quilla takes in her coffee. And I presume Director Hartmann takes hers black, with no sweets at all.”

Addy looked at him in surprise. “How do you know?”

Ianto shrugged. “I’m not sure. I just do. The Director strikes me as a very weight-conscious person.”

“That she is indeed; _and_ she likes good coffee,” Addy said. “If you match her taste, you’re as good as hired.”

“I believe _that_ would take a little more than coffee-making skills, but I’ll do my best,” Ianto replied, filling up the first coffee cup. “Voila. Fresh, strong and delicious.”

Addy sniffed it appreciatively. “Mmmm.”

They filled the rest of the coffee in a thermos and took everything up to Yvonne Hartmann’s office. She’d already finished her short meeting with Quilla and was properly impressed with the dark, strong, aromatic beverage Ianto served her.

“The first decent cup I’ve had in four months,” she exclaimed. “And you truly made this with that relic?”

“I’m used to the quirks of antiquated coffee machines,” Ianto replied modestly. “It’s all a matter of practice.”

“You’ll be wasted as Dr. Howarth’s assistant,” Yvonne said, a little bit wistfully. “All the man ever drinks is tea. Unfortunately, we need your brains more. It’s still a shame, though.”

Ianto didn’t really know what to answer to that; luckily for him, no answer seemed to be expected. Having enjoyed her _heavenly coffee_ , as she called it, Yvonne was now all business again, starting off to give him the grand tour.

And Ianto had to admit that Torchwood Tower was a bloody marvel indeed.

The fifty levels above ground housed offices, labs, a law firm associated with Torchwood, lecturing halls for engineering and economics students, leased out to various parts of university, a highly specialised library – in both physical and digital form – keeping works for all research topics the Institute had ever worked on, research labs for electronics, chemistry, physics, cybernetics and who could tell what else… Even a small, semi-independent faculty for applied mathematics could be found among the Tower’s tenants.

On the ground floor, there were small restaurants surrounding the foyer area, not for the employers only but accessible for the general public, too. Based on the amount of CCTV cameras, not all of them easily spotted, Ianto assumed that it was a way to check on whom the employees regularly socialised with.

The basement – next to the heavily surveilled parking lot – had an underground shopping area and a transport interchange from Canary Wharf tube and Docklands Light Railway stations. Access from the basement also linked to the Canada Square shopping mall.

The actual sublevels began _under_ the basement and were accessible by a special lift, operated by Torchwood ID chips only. On Sublevels One to Five were more labs, dedicated mostly to medical research, and on Sublevel Six was Torchwood’s huge digital archive – the realm of Rupert Howarth, the Institute’s Head Archivist.

“The actual physical documents are sealed and safely stored below us, on Sublevels Seven to Nine,” Howarth explained. “We can dig out anything that might be needed, back to the founding of the Institute two hundred years ago. It’s just easier and safer to use the digitalised copies.”

“Is it not dangerous, though, putting all your eggs in the same basket?” Ianto asked. “If anything happens to this place…”

“That would be unfortunate, but not fatal,” Yvonne replied. “There are copies, both digital and physical ones, of everything in two different places. We can reconstruct everything in case of a disaster… or an attempt of hostile takeover.”

Ianto raised a surprised eyebrow. “Is that a real danger?”

Yvonne nodded grimly. “Oh, yes. Industrial espionage is the most profitable branch of white collar crimes, and we _are_ on top with our research in every area we choose to work in. Needless to say that we’re also well-prepared to deal with both natural disasters and espionage. Captain Harkness did a very thorough job on the security system, and our people are well trained.”

She waved in the direction of the seemingly unarmed security guards in their nondescript black uniform. “Colonel Moran has taught them well, haven’t you, Sebastian?”

The man, to whom that last question had been addressed, nodded coolly. “Yes, ma’am.”

But there was no real satisfaction in his voice; _or_ any sign of pride. In fact, he didn’t seem to have any emotions at all. His face – a fairly plain and everyday one nobody would remember after a fleeting encounter – was blank and his eyes expressionless like small, grey pebbles. Ianto suppressed an involuntary shudder, sensing that it wouldn’t be wise to show any reaction to this guy.

“Well, carry on, then,” Yvonne smiled. The man nodded and left.

Yvonne turned back to Ianto. “I think it's _very_ important to know everyone by name. Torchwood is a very modern organisation. People skills. That's what it's all about these days,” she smiled smugly again; a smile that lacked any true warmth. “I'm a people person.”

Ianto didn’t actually doubt that. She appeared to deal with most people rather well. He had the impression, though, that this Colonel Moran was one of the few on whom her ‘people skills’ would be wasted.

“Is he truly a colonel?” Ianto asked, giving Sebastian Moran’s retreating back a thoughtful look.

Yvonne nodded. “Oh, yes. Well, he used to be anyway. Served three full tours in Afghanistan before he’d be discharged from Her Majesty’s Army.”

"Honourably?” Ianto inquired quietly.

Somehow he doubted it. Colonel Moran gave him the feeling as if a big, dangerous predator – with no concept for mercy or remorse – had passed by him.

“No,” Yvonne admitted. “There was some scandal in Kandahar, involving accidentally killed civilians and, well, Colonel Moran’s name arose. He had to have at least _something_ to do with those killings, but most likely a minor one, as all it happened to him was a discharge.”

“And you chose _him_ to be your head of security?” Ianto asked, somewhat baffled. “Why?”

“Two reasons,” Yvonne replied calmly. “One: he’s excellent at training our people; they probably know twenty different ways to kill a man with a salt shaker by now.”

“And the other reason?” Ianto asked warily.

“He wouldn’t hesitate to kill civilians if there was absolutely no other way to protect the ones whose safety is entrusted to him. He’s probably done so many times.”

“And who decided _when_ there’s not other way?” Ianto asked.

“I do,” Yvonne answered coldly. “Oh, don’t be like that! We’ve been making the word’s biggest omelettes here since the nineteenth century. We cannot afford being queasy about cracking our eggs.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
“She’s right, you know,” Rupert Howarth said when Yvonne left, leaving Ianto in his care. “The agents of the competitors, be they home-grown or foreign, aren’t picky in their methods, either. The Institute has lost a number of excellent employees during its history – either because they were willing to accept bribe from the competitor… or because they weren’t. Even terrorist groups develop an unhealthy interest in our research from time to time. It depends on the nature of the research, I guess.”

“Does it mean that I’ll be endangered, too, if I chose to work for Torchwood?” Ianto asked.

He wasn’t particularly frightened; he just wanted to know the possible risks. _All_ of them.

“Not until you’ve reached a certain position, which won’t be happening for quite some time,” Howarth replied. “Junior researchers – or archivists, in you case – know very little about the big picture, and Yvonne makes sure that it’s a well-known fact. Young people only know fragments of any project they may be working on. Only the department heads are informed about the actual goal of an individual project; and only Yvonne and I know about each and every project here. So, you see, even if you proved himself as a worthy successor, it would take you years to learn enough to start worrying.”

“But if you’re the ultimate source of information, you and Ms Hartmann, how do you make sure that they can’t get it from you?” Ianto asked. “Are you carrying cyanide capsules on you or what? Just in case they’d try torturing you, or used some kind of truth serum on you?”

“No, no cyanide capsules,” Howarth said. “We have an amnesia pill.”

“A _what_?” Well, that sounded like cheesy science fiction, Ianto found.

“The official name is Compound B67,” Howarth explained grimly. “It isn’t actually a pill; it’s a capsule with the liquid form of it, embedded into one of our teeth. It causes complete memory loss, save for the basic functions of the human mind. There’s a time slot for the antidote that can reverse the process, but if it isn’t administered in time, the information will be irreversibly lost.”

“How long?” Ianto asked tonelessly.

“That depends on the doses,” Howarth replied. “If _you_ ’d be made to forget a single, recent event, the dose would be low enough to recover the memory during the following week. In _my_ case, however, the dose would be _very_ high; I’ve got decades’ worth of knowledge in my head. Knowledge that would be lost forever after six hours. Of course,” he added with a sly grin, “it helps that most people have no idea what Yvonne and I are actually doing here. Even our own employees believe her to be a simple bureaucrat… and me some boring paper pusher. Archivist of a scientific institute doesn’t sound very exciting, does it?”

“Not really,” Ianto agreed. “Does it mean that you’re under constant surveillance, though? For your own safety?”

Howarth nodded. “More or less; and so’s Yvonne. But that’s part of the job. We are in danger, and we could endanger the entire work here, if things go wrong. Precaution is the better part of valour; and besides, in our positions we cannot afford to have secrets. Secrets would make us vulnerable.”

“What about your families, though?” Ianto asked.

Howarth shrugged. “I don’t have any, and neither does Yvonne. It’s practical in our situation. But if we _did_ have families, they’d be protected, just like Mr. Holmes’s own. That’s part of the deal.”

“It would still be awfully risky for the family,” Ianto said, thinking of Rhi and Johnny and Daffy and the baby on its way.

Howarth shrugged again. “So is going down to Tesco’s; you can be hit by a car or something. There are no guarantees as long as you’re alive, young man. Life _is_ a risky business.”

“True,” Ianto allowed,” but some risks are greater than the others. I’m not afraid of endangering myself, but my sister and her family. We are simple folk, Mr. Howarth, not used to play in the upper league; and I don’t want them to get hurt because of me. Even if that particular risk wouldn’t become reality for years yet to come.”

Howarth nodded in understanding.

“Those are genuine concerns, of course, and no-one can make the final decision for you. You can choose to work for Torchwood as a junior archivist and remain in that position; we do need capable people on the lower levels of the hierarchy, too. However, if your test results keep turning out the way they have done so far, you’d be wasted in a minor position. Your memory is outstanding, your mind is highly organised – or will be, once we’ve finished creating order in your head – and your observation skills are well above average.”

“I’m sure this place has hundreds of people much smarter than me,” Ianto said, and Howarth laughed.

“Of course. But they’re scientists; they’d never be able to do what Mr. Holmes hopes _you_ ’d do after my retirement.”

“And that would be?” Ianto wasn’t sure he should laugh or scream. His father seemed awfully determined to have him work for Torchwood… _and_ for the family, in the end.

“Running this place from behind the scenes, just like _he_ does in Whitehall,” Mr Howarth replied seriously. I don’t have the people skills to do so; which is one of the reasons why we need Yvonne. But _you_ do. And while Mr. Holmes has already selected _Yvonne_ ’s successor, he was _very_ concerned about finding someone well-suited to take over from me. Until _you_ came along, that is.”

Ianto shook his head doubtfully. “I’m not sure I’m really suited for such a task.”

“You have the _potential_ ,” Howarth replied simply. “Everything else you can learn. You’re young enough, and I’m planning to stay here for quite some time yet.”


	11. Agreement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ianto and Mycroft come to a mutual agreement.

**CHAPTER 09 – AGREEMENT**

Ianto expected his father to contact him soon after his visit at Torchwood Tower – and he was _not_ disappointed. The surprising point was that this time he didn’t simply got kidnapped from _Angelo’s_ right after his shift. Or – what would have been even more annoying – directly from university.

No, this time he got an invitation. An actual, honest-to-earth invitation, written on high-quality stationary by an elegant, cursive hand, presumably with a sinfully expensive fountain pen that cost more than his laptop, his MP4-player _and_ his mobile phone together.

Actually, as his new phone had been a gift from Dame Diane, delivered to his and Wesley’s new shared flat less than a week ago, he wasn’t entirely sure about _that_ part. Dame Diane seemed to have taken a liking to him during their first (and so far only) encounter at the _Criterion_. She phoned him from time to time for no apparent reason, chatted amiably about insignificant little things, and then excused herself after a few minutes, without ever telling why she’d called.

Then the new phone arrived. Ianto took it to university with him, to have a friendly engineering student take a look at it and remove any potential tracking devices. There had been none. Either the gesture had been just that: a simple kindness from an affectionate aunt, or the bug was so sophisticated not even Lisa Hallett would recognise it.

And _that_ would be saying a lot. Lisa was the best of her class, in fact had been offered a job at Torchwood after her upcoming graduation. Of course, knowing what Ianto knew about the Institute, it would have been possible that they’d developed bugs not even the brightest student would spot. Not even the very student they’d found good enough to work for them.

Ianto shook his head, telling himself to keep his paranoia in check and read the invitation again. He’d been invited to Mycroft Holmes’s townhouse on Pall Mall, to discuss his future, as the message said, _in the presence of a few selected members and friends of the family_.

Which thought alone was enough to give him the creeps. He fervently hoped that he wasn’t about to meet his formidable grandmother. He didn’t feel up to the challenge of facing Violet Holmes (née Sherringford) and her infamous housekeeper/house dragon/whatever just yet. 

But who else might be there? He realised with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t even know who – and how many people – actually belonged to the Holmes family… save for Dame Diane and his eccentric uncle, Sherlock. The fact that they all knew about his existence and who he really was (with the possible exception of Sherlock, unless he’d figured out everything in the meantime, which wouldn’t surprise Ianto at all) didn’t really help things.

The only relief was that the invitation had been extended to Wesley, too. Well, relief for _Ianto_ anyway. When he’d been told, Wesley nearly fainted, and had been fretting like a virgin bride before the wedding night ever since.

When the evening finally came, they were picked up by the usual sleel black car, with the spiky-haired Jack Simmonds driving but, surprisingly, without Quilla and her ever-present BlackBerry. Ianto was grateful that his father had sent Simmonds. Not that he’d have anything against Smith, Mickey was a nice enough bloke, but he was also trying to behave like a proper, posh servant so hard it always made Wesley nervous.

Which was ridiculous, considering that _Wesley_ had been the one growing up in a posh home with an – admittedly small – staff, but as Dame Diane had put it, some servants could be downright intimidating in their efforts to be prim and proper. Even though Ianto would been hard-pressed to imagine his great-aunt to be intimidated by _anyone_ … short of Her Majesty the Queen, with whom she was on first-name basis anyway.

Ianto stifled a chuckle and led the slightly panicking Wesley to the car. They both wore their best suits, which meant that Ianto looked like a moderately well-paid butler next to Wesley’s spotless elegance. If there was one thing Wesley was better than most, it was keeping up appearances.

Of course, Ianto could have bought something a lot more impressive than the better one of his two suits, now that he had his father’s generous financial support, but he didn’t want to. Not yet. He wanted the family to accept him as he was: a simple young man who’d always had to work hard for everything. He knew he’d probably not remain that person much longer. But if they didn’t accept his former life, he saw no reason to change on _their_ behalf.

Wesley had been most vocally unhappy about his _provocative rudeness_ , as he’d phrased it, but Ianto didn’t care. He knew he’d inevitably change if he became involved with the Holmes empire, the true dimensions of which he’d just begun to understand, but he didn’t intend to become a different person entirely. To forget where he came from.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Despite the brave façade he’d put on, he was undeniably nervous when the car pulled up in front of an elegant, white building with a tiny, perfectly trimmed front yard, through which a short path – paved with flat white stones – led to the main entrance.

“Go right in,” Simmonds said, opening the passenger door for them. “Wilf will be waiting for you. I’ll just take the car to the garage.”

Ianto nodded and headed towards the front door, made of dark, polished wood and decorated with beautiful brass fittings, among them a doorknocker in the shape of a lion’s head, holding a thick brass ring in its mouth. He didn’t get to use it, though. As soon as he set foot on the lowest of the six stairs leading to the door, it swung open soundlessly, and he stood face to face with Wilfred Mott, the butler/valet/manservant/family treasure of the three previous generations of Holmeses.

Wilf, as Ianto’s father had always referred to him, must have been well into his seventies, but he still appeared to be in a good shape for his age. His face was full of laugh lines around the eyes and the mouth, and those eyes were bright and curious. Clearly, he was someone who enjoyed life. In his conservative suit he could have been the master of the house, instead of the butler. Ianto began to understand what Dame Diane might have meant when she said that some servants could be downright intimidating, even though Wilf didn’t seem to aim for that effect _at all_.

“Mr. Jones,” he said in his elderly, yet not the least weak voice. “Welcome to the Holmes townhouse. Please, come in; you too, Mr. Wyndham-Price. Mr. Holmes and the others are awaiting you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mott,” Ianto nodded politely.

The answer earned him a broad, almost wicked smile from the old man. “Just Wilf, if you please, young sir. When people call me Mr. Mott, I can’t help wondering if I’ve suddenly turned into a bald-headed, blue-skinned and very talkative alien barber all of a sudden. This way, please.”

Ianto chuckled, following the old man deeper into the house. His father _had_ mentioned that his valet was something of an amateur astronomer, but Ianto hadn’t expected him to be a Star Trek fan, too, with such in-depth knowledge about trivia. It was a pleasant surprise that not _everyone_ around the Holmeses got stuck in the 19th-century mindset.

The drawing room where they were led was an airy one, furnished in a style of timeless elegance. _Only the best for Mr. Holmes_ , Ianto thought sarcastically, but he had to admit that refined taste had probably played at least as big a role as money when choosing furniture and decoration. Not necessary what _he_ would have chosen, but again, this was the home of somebody a generation older. And he couldn’t deny that the results looked great.

He was relieved to see Dame Diane among the guests; at least _one_ friendly face – and a potential ally. She sat next to Ianto’s father, who was sporting the usual three-piece suit, but this time in a much lighter colour as usual. At first glance it looked grey, but on closer inspection it proved to be a weave. Perfectly tailored and perfectly pressed, of course (those trouser creases could have cut frozen butter effortlessly); something his father was probably comfortable wearing to the office as well as at home.

Mycroft Holmes rose from his seat when Ianto and Wesley were led in to shake their hands in a friendly manner; then introduced them to the rest of the guests.

“Ladies and gentlemen, meet Ianto Jones; my son,” he said as if this were the most natural thing in the world (not to mention a previous agreement between them that it could be revealed),” and his flatmate, Wesley Wyndham-Price.”

He must have prepared his guests in advance – save Dame Diane who’d already known it, of course – because the only one who nearly fainted from shock was Wesley.

“Y-your… son?” he stuttered. Ianto nodded grimly. 

“It’s something we both learned but a short time ago. I wasn’t prepared for it to become public knowledge so soon, though,” he added, with an unfriendly glare in his father’s direction.

“And it won’t,” Mycroft replied smoothly. “Certain people needed to know, however, for reasons I’ll reveal later tonight. Let me make the further introductions first. I assume you both know my Aunt Diane.”

Dame Diane beamed at her favourite nephew. “I made sure of that. Had I waited for you to finally make your move, I still wouldn’t have met Ianto. And _that_ would be a shame.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft knew better than to try arguing with his resolute aunt. Instead, he gestured at the beautiful, elegant black woman in her late twenties who was wearing an aubergine skirt suit that Ianto recognised as a unique, custom-made model at the first sight.

“May I introduce Ms Letitia Jones our current PR chief?” he said. “She’s the one selected to take over for Yvonne Hartmann one day. So when Ianto is ready to step into Mr. Howarth’s place, the two of them will work together rather closely.”

“Call me Tish,” Ms Jones shook Ianto’s hand unceremoniously, “and don’t worry. I’m not like my Mum at all. Well… not very much, and only at work.”

Ianto blinked a few times, having no idea how to interpret that last comment. Dame Diane came to his aid.

“Tish is the older daughter of Violet’s housekeeper,” she explained. “And no, she really isn’t like her mother; save her ambitions and her iron will. But those are good traits in a girl, in my opinion.”

Tish Jones grinned at her. “Thank you, ma’am, I do my best.”

“The _women_ of the family are all ambitious and strong-willed,” Dame Diane added.

There was clearly an unspoken message in that compliment, but Ianto found it better not to ask. Not yet anyway. Perhaps he’d make inquiries later.

“Indeed, we’re all more than satisfied with Letitia’s achievements,” Mycroft said smoothly, steering the conversation away from a possibly controversial topic with the practiced ease of the politician that he was.

He turned to a thin man with an animated face and unruly hair next, who was wearing a somewhat ill-fitting brown suit and a pair of oversized, horn-rimmed glasses. _Lawyer_ , Ianto’s brain supplied. _Married for quite some time_ , he added, with a glance at the wedding band. _No_ , he corrected himself, _widowed or possibly divorced; he lost a lot of weight lately and seems more than a little jumpy_.

“Mr. John Smith is the head lawyer of our family,” Mycroft continued his introductions. “As was his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him; and as his daughter will hopefully be one day. _Smith, Smith & Smith_ has worked for the Holmeses since its foundation, for mutual satisfaction, if I may be so bold to say it myself.”

“Oh, we’d all agree with that, Mr. Holmes,” the lawyer with the possibly sentient hair shook Ianto’s hand enthusiastically.

Now that he could take a closer look Ianto saw that the man wasn’t nearly as young as he’d first thought. Definitely beyond forty; in his mid-forties perhaps, if he had a grown daughter already. And widowed indeed, if the thin black band in his buttonhole was any indication.

He also clearly knew Wesley already, which could only mean that _Smith, Smith & Smith_ counted the Wyndham-Price family among their clients as well. That was fine with Ianto; that way he could hope to learn more about the man from Wesley later.

“Mr. Ellis is the chief accountant of the Holmes estate,” Mycroft went on, introducing a distinguished gentleman in his fifties, wearing a conservative, tailored suit that was, however, nowhere near as fancy as his own. “Well, actually he’s in charge of our finances, as I no longer have the time to take care of them personally. I want you to work with him, Ianto, on a regular basis. He can teach you everything you’d never hear of at that school of yours. You’ll benefit from your experience, even if you choose _not_ to work for the Institute.”

“I’ll try my best, sir,” Ianto replied amiably, and he meant it.

He liked Mr. Ellis at once. The man had an air of solid reliability about him… but also an air of deep sadness, especially when he looked at Ianto. He must have lost a beloved child, most likely a son, at some time, Ianto decided.

“And, last but not least, this is a friend of my parents, my godfather and my strongest ally: Commodore Harry Sullivan,” Mycroft finished the introductions. “Formerly a surgeon of the Royal Navy, now Deputy Director of MI5; we work together occasionally. But first and foremost, he’s a dear old friend.”

“Well, he ought to,” Dame Diane commented, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Had Violet chosen differently, he’d have ended up as your father, the poor sod.”

“A thought too horrible to even contemplate, I say,” the greying old gentleman with the straight military posture and the dramatic sideburns agreed with obvious amusement. “Although I could live with a grandson like you, my dear chap,” he added for Ianto’s sake and shook hands with him. “Nice to meet you. If you decide you’d like a somewhat less dull job, there’s always room for promising young men at MI5.”

“As flattering as this sounds, I don’t really think I’d be interested in becoming a spy, sir,” Ianto replied politely but firmly.

“Intelligence officer,” the commodore corrected with twinkling eyes. “It might not be quite as exciting as a James Bond film, but it does have its moments, you know.”

“I’ll take your word for it, sir,” Ianto replied with a bland smile. “But honestly, I prefer my connections to espionage to be limited to the cinemas.”

The commodore laughed. “Well, it’s your choice, of course. You’ll have time enough to change your mind later.”

“I rather doubt I would, sir,” Ianto said.”

“We’ll see,” the commodore shrugged. “I never planned to end up working for the Secret Service, either. In my younger years I actually hoped that I’d crack the jackpot one day, so that I could buy myself out of the Navy, buy a quiet little practice in the country and live the simple life of a country doctor…”

“There were only two problems with that plan,” Dame Diane laughed. “Firstly, to crack the jackpot you should have played lottery in the first place, which you never did. Secondly, a quiet life in the country would have driven you strong barking mad within the year.”

“Well, there’s that,” the commodore admitted. “I say, life doesn’t always respect our best-laid plans.”

“Nonetheless, we do need to make such plans, and that’s the reason why we’re here today,” Mycroft said as if on clue. “Please, have a seat, Ianto… Wesley. I have an offer to make to you – both of you – and the others are here to help working out an agreement.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They made themselves comfortable while Wilf served tea and biscuits, and then Mycroft finally came to the point of the entire meeting.

“Ianto has made it very clear that he doesn’t want our… err… connection to become public knowledge,” he began, “and for the time being, I agree with him.”

“You do?” Ianto was more than a little surprised. Based on his father’s recent actions he’d have expected the opposite.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I do. You’re not prepared to lead a life in which I could enforce your safety; not yet. Due to my position, a minor one though it may be, if it came out that you’re my son, it would endanger us both. We’ve discussed this already.”

“Yeah,” Ianto nodded. “It would make _me_ a target – and as such, a dangerous liability for _you_.”

“Quite correct,” Mycroft said. “Also, regardless of your pleasant manners, you’re not prepared to deal with people our family usually socialises with as an equal. I’ve conceived a plan to change _that_.”

“How?” Ianto gave his father a look that was suspicious and bewildered at the same time.

“With Wesley’s help,” Mycroft replied calmly. “I’d like him to remain your flatmate for an indefinite length of time; in which time I’d employ him as your, let’s say it, society coach. To teach you everything you’d need to move confidently in the social circle of the family. He’s been taught these things from childhood on, and as you already live together, giving you the necessary polish wouldn’t be such a complicated task, would it?”

“Of course not, Mr. Holmes,” Wesley seemed pitifully eager to please, and Ianto made a mental note to rip him a new one later, when they were alone, for snivelling so obviously. Guy really ought to grow a spine!

“Needless to say that I’m willing to… compensate you for your efforts,” Mycroft continued. “The sum I’m willing to play you on a monthly basis would give you a certain grade of independence which, in my opinion, would serve you well. It will be an official employment; Mr. Ellis will work out the details with you later.”

“You don’t have to bribe him to stay with me, you know,” Ianto said in a slightly hostile tone. “We actually _like_ sharing a flat; managed to do so without your interference before. No need to try making him the gentleman butler of the uncouth, rich bastard.”

Mycroft shook his head in disapproval. “Such language, my boy! Must you always be so resentful? How is Wesley working for _me_ worse than _you_ working as a lowly coffee boy for Angelo?”

“Well, for starters, I’m doing a job at _Angelo’s_ at which I’m practiced and fairly good,” Ianto returned.

“Quite so,” Mycroft agreed. “That’s exactly what I’m speaking of. Or are you too proud to accept Wesley’s guidance? Many things that you’d need to succeed in our circles are second nature for him. He could train you much better than any outsider I might hire.”

“But I don’t _want_ to become some posh git!” Ianto protested. “I like my life as it’s now; and _that_ ’s another thing we’ve discussed before.”

“I understand that this is not easy for you,” Mycroft said slowly. “But you must realise that you don’t truly have a choice. At the very moment when your uncle – your adoptive father – revealed the truth of your true origins, that choice was taken out of our hands. A secret of this magnitude is no longer a secret when more than two people know about it; and we’re well beyond that already. No matter what we decide today, it _will_ come out eventually. And when it does, I want you to be prepared.”

That was depressingly true, of course, and for a moment Ianto felt incredible, helpless anger for his Tad. He understood that Ifan Jones had only his best interests on mind, but wasn’t there a saying about the way to Hell being paved with good intentions? Revealing Ianto’s connection to the Holmes family had practically taken away his chance for a normal life. For a life as he’d known it before.

Dame Diane stood and walked around the table to hug the very obviously distraught young man.

“Don’t be so devastated, my dear,” she said gently. “We can hold back this information for quite some time; in fact, I expect Mycroft to do so as long as possible. Besides, being a posh git isn’t necessarily such a bad thing,” she added with twinkling eyes. “Lots of young men from good families lead a fairly mundane life, even though they bear names that played pivotal roles in the history of England.”

“And how many of those are Holmeses?” Ianto asked bitterly.

“None,” Dame Diane confessed. “But that doesn’t mean that we’d expect you to become a hare-brained dandy; on the contrary. We Holmeses have always worked hard for everything we achieved, and I’m fairly sure that you’ll enjoy working for Torchwood. All those young and bright people who work there will prove a stimulating environment.”

“And they don’t need to know that you’ll become their boss eventually,” Tish Jones added. “They aren’t aware of the true importance of Mr. Howarth’s position, not even those who work as junior archivists. You’ll be able to stay under the radar for years to come yet.”

“But my studies…” Ianto began uncertainly.

“You’ll have the chance to finish them, of course. In fact, I expect you to do well,” Mycroft said. “For now, it will be enough if you spent one afternoon a week at the Institute and another one with Mr. Ellis to receive special tutoring… which, I assure you, will be beneficial for your studies. As for _Angelo’s_ …”

“No,” Ianto interrupted. “I won’t quit my job there. And I won’t quit the band, either.”

“Be reasonable, my boy…”

“Sorry,” Ianto cut into his father’s word again, “but that’s non-negotiable. I won’t become your puppet on a string. If I’m to agree with your plans for my future, I need to keep at least parts of my current life, or I’d go crazy. And if my girlfriend happens to miraculously disappear due to some generous offer she just couldn’t refuse – like a scholarship in one of the great fashion houses in the overseas – then we’ll be done with each other for good.”

Mycroft stiffened in his seat as if he’d been punched in the gut, which only strengthened Ianto’s suspicions that he’d already planned something similar for Emma. Well, he’d have to change those plans. Ianto wasn’t about to give up on her girlfriend, just cos she might not meet his father’s expectations.

“Crickey,” the commodore said softly in the ensuing silence. “That was a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

Ianto turned to him. “No, sir, I don’t think so. This is _my_ life – the only one I’ll ever have. I might not have a clear idea what I want to do with it, but I won’t let anyone else make that choice for me. I’m barely twenty, and I intend to _live_ a little before I’d make any lasting decisions.”

“He’s right, you know,” Dame Diane said to her nephew. “Just because _you_ obediently followed Richard’s plans for your life, it doesn’t mean your son has to do the same.”

“I happened to agree with Father’s plans for me,” Mycroft replied indignantly. “Civil service has always been the place best suited for me, given that I never had any inclination towards either silence or art.”

“Exactly,” Dame Diane prompted. “You chose it because it met your interests. So let the boy make his own choices and don’t worry. He’s a smart one; he’ll choose well. Just give him time.”

“I don’t have any other choice, do I?” Mycroft muttered unhappily. He hated not being in charge, but in the given situation _that_ just wasn’t one of the possibilities.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
The rest of the evening was spent with hammering out the details of the agreement. In true Welsh fashion, Ianto stubbornly fought every aspect he saw as the limitation of his personal freedom. So much so that it made the lawyer ask his father in exasperation:

“Are you sure he’s yours and not Sherlock’s, sir? He seems to have the same pig-headed nature.”

Dame Diane laughed at that. “Well, he’s a Holmes. _And_ he’s half-Welsh. What did you expect from such a mix?”

But in the end they did all come to a temporary agreement, with the side note that details could be modified later if both sides consented.

“Are you okay with this, Wes?” Ianto asked his friend when they returned to their shared flat in Central London.

Wesley frowned, carefully hanging up his best suit. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that your Dad won’t necessarily be happy with you becoming the nanny of a plebeian Welsh bloke who happens to be Mycroft Holmes’s protégée,” Ianto clarified. “I hardly think he’d agree with your choice of friends where I’m concerned, seeing that I’m not only five years younger but don’t have any social status in his eyes, either. You’re his only son, after all.”

“Don’t worry,” Wesley answered with that peculiar bitterness that always surfaced whenever he mentioned his family. “In good _posh_ tradition, as you’d put it, my father was _never_ happy with me or with any of my choices. I turned myself inside out to make him proud of me, and all I got for my pitiful efforts was disdain. The only person who ever cared for me was Uncle Aubrey, and he’s dead. No-one will bother to even ask what I’m doing, as long as I’m not in their way and don’t cost them any money.”

“Their friends will talk, though,” Ianto pointed out.

Wesley shrugged. “Let them… who cares? They’re not _my_ friends. The sad truth is, Ianto, I never had a friend before you. Had you not pinned that flatshare offer on the blackboard of the school cafeteria, I still wouldn’t have any.”

Ianto shrugged, too. “Well, most people are idiots, but their loss is my gain. As long as you _are_ okay with how things are between us…”

Wesley smiled. “I’m _fine_ , Ianto. I’d be happy to help you navigate among the pitfalls of… of _poshness_ , as long as I can go to pubs and rugby matches and rock concerts with you in exchange and experience what it means to be a normal guy… even if I stand out of the crowd like a sore thumb,” he shrugged his bony shoulders. “And if Mr. Holmes insists on paying me for it, who am I to argue with him?”

Ianto laughed. “True. One does not argue with old money – especially if it belongs to a Holmes. All right, I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. Let’s have some sleep. I’m writing a test first thing tomorrow, and I wanna get a good grade.”


	12. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ‘turbolift’ of the Torchwood Institute was inspired by the alarmingly fast lift of the Danube Tower in Vienna. It’s really, sickeningly fast, especially for people with claustrophobic tendencies (like me).

**CHAPTER 10 – EPILOGUE**

Six months later.

Wesley Wyndham-Price checked his immaculate appearance one more time in the mirror of his bedroom and nodded in satisfaction. Every single hair on his head was firmly in place, unruly locks smoothed out and forced in spotless order. The chain of his pocket watch (inherited from his beloved Uncle Aubrey) was threaded through the buttonhole of his waistcoat in the right way, and his new tie-pin (a gift for his recent and successful graduation) perfectly placed.

Yes, he could show his face without the ever-present dread of embarrassing himself.

He’d always been very conscious of his appearance, but today was particularly important. Today he’d be introduced to the director and the department heads of the Torchwood Institute. Today he’d begin his first official day at work as a junior archivist.

Granted, this wasn’t exactly his dream job. _That_ would have been librarian at a museum; preferably at the British Museum itself. He’d been in hopeless love with that gorgeous library since the day he’d first set foot there at the age of six. But he was realistic enough to understand that he was too young and too inexperienced to even _think_ of applying for a job like that. At least two generations would have to die out before he’d get a chance.

Therefore when Mr Howarth had asked if he’d like to work for the Institute with him (and later with Ianto), Wesley had agreed without hesitation.

“If you prove yourself, you can hope to become the curator of Torchwood House one day,” Mr Howarth had said. “Then you can live on the Torchwood estate like your ancestors did who were country squires. That would suit you the best, I think. And you can live out your librarian’s instincts in the Archives there.”

That was certainly very true, and Wesley found that he liked the idea. Ianto had made it adamantly clear that he’d never _bury himself in the bloody countryside_ , as he put it. He was a city boy and wouldn’t leave London for the world. So Wesley had been the logical choice to be groomed as the next curator. _That_ would take quite a few years, too, but the Holmeses were good at long-term planning.

His thoughts were interrupted by Ianto pounding on his door impatiently.

“Wes, are you coming out of there any time soon? The car will be here in five minutes, and you know what they say about Ms Hartmann and punctuality, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” and he knew indeed. If there was something Yvonne Hartmann couldn’t tolerate it was the lack of punctuality. So Wesley cast a last, anxious glance into the mirror and hurried out to his friend as quickly as his newfound dignity would allow.

It was amazing how fast dignity could move if there was a deadline looming on the horizon.

Ianto was waiting for him in the foyer, also wearing one of his good suits. Not one of those _Marks & Spencer_ atrocities, though. He had finally given in to acquire a few much fancier ones, due to his fa… to Mr. Holmes’s insistence. Wesley was very careful not even _think_ of Mr Holmes as Ianto’s father. That could have led to a dangerous slip of tongue at the least desirable time. 

Of course, the fact that Ianto never spoke of the man that way either helped to remain discreet. He still called his adoptive father – his uncle, really – _Tad_ , in Welsh fashion and with deep affection, while his biological father was always mentioned as _Mr Holmes_ , in a somewhat wary manner.

Wesley didn’t blame his friend for being wary. His own father was bad enough when it came to scare the living daylight out of people, but Mr Homes was _truly_ intimidating. And Ianto hadn’t even grown up with him to get used to the feeling as a child.

On the other hand, that had probably – no, certainly – made Ianto’s childhood a much happier one, despite the financial struggles of his adoptive family and his adoptive father’s drinking.

The car was just pulling up in front of their house when they left it, their landlady, the grandmotherly Mrs Turner, waving them from her open window. She was so much more than a landlady, really. She’d practically adopted them, providing them with copious amounts of tea and home-made biscuits… and gossip. (The fact that Ianto despised tea didn’t really count. She _was_ a jewel.) She would even have cleaned out the flat after them, had they not been fastidious by nature themselves – Ianto cos living in an ordered environment helped him to keep his mind ordered and Wesley because he’d been raised that way. He now smiled back at Mrs Turner tightly, grateful for the wordless encouragement, and followed Ianto to the car.

He was surprised to see Mr Holmes’s PA in the driver’s seat; the mysterious woman who, according to Ianto, changed her name from time to time.

“It wouldn’t be a good thing to make people realise that you’re meant to rise in the ranks more quickly,” she explained. “Besides, Mr Holmes has to deal with certain members of the cabinet today. It seems somebody has got themselves in a mess, as usual, and an emergency meeting has been summoned during the night. It can last a while.”

“England would fall without its civil servants,” Ianto commented dryly. “Had the Welsh known that earlier, we’d never have bothered assassinating kings or Prime Ministers.”

“That’s why we keep it such a deep secret,” Quilla grinned. “Now, get in the car, gentlemen, we have no time to waste.”

They laughed and climbed into the back seat where they already found Tish Jones, wearing her elegant business suit and carrying a large leather quite vintage-looking briefcase.

“Your employment papers,” she explained to Wesley. “I’m representing Mr Holmes today.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Even after six months’ worth of weekly visits, Ianto felt understandable excitement when entering Torchwood Tower. The place had turned out a great deal more complex and interesting than he’d have originally thought, and by now he was genuinely looking forward to these visits. He’d made fast friends with several members of Yvonne’s staff – he was particularly fond of Addy – and among the younger scientists he’d found a few casual friends as well.

Lisa Hallett had indeed got that promised job at Cybernetics, and she dropped by whenever Ianto had his tutoring days with Mr Howarth. They’d grown unexpectedly close in these months, perhaps due to the fact that Emma, Ianto’s girlfriend, _had_ got an irresistible scholarship offer from one of the great fashion houses in Italy, and Lisa had introduced Ianto to quite a few of her friends and co-workers.

Ianto hadn’t spoken to his father for a month after Emma’s departure, although Mycroft swore that _he_ hadn’t had a hand in it. Perhaps he hadn’t indeed; however, knowing him Ianto found it a little hard to believe. He and Emma didn’t break up, not officially, but having a relationship across a whole continent wasn’t an easy thing. So he would mostly find himself hanging out with Lisa, Addy, Addy’s boyfriend Gareth, Matt and Addy’s cousin Martha Jones, who happened to be a young resident doctor at _St. Bartholomew’s Hospital_ – or _Bart’s_ as it was usually called – and with Wesley orbiting around them as it was his wont. 

It had been quite a shock when he realised that Martha was actually Tish’s younger sister, but then he remembered Dame Diane’s comment about how the _women_ of the family were all very ambitious. He couldn’t deny the truth of that, having now met both beautiful, strong-willed sisters… _and_ their estranged father who seemed content enough to be the groundskeeper of the Holmes townhouse in London and living with a blonde bimbo younger than his own daughters.

As they had become a close-knit little group of friends, so had Ianto drifted away, slowly yet inevitably, from his mates at university. Oh, he still played rugby with them, even did gigs with the band occasionally – mostly because Addy and the others liked their music. But the former closeness wasn’t there anymore. Ianto was playing in a different league now, and after the first bouts of rebellion, he’d accepted that fact. Being a protégée of the Holmes family _did_ make him different (even if you weren’t related to them, evidently, as Wesley’s case showed), whether you liked it or not.

To his honest surprise, Ianto found that he didn’t mind it as much as he originally had. He still had to work hard to produce the required results – Mycroft Holmes wouldn’t accept anything but the very best from his only son – but receiving extra tutoring from both Mr Howarth and Mr Ellis _did_ help. It also opened his horizon in ways he couldn’t even have imagined before, and for that he was grateful.

Knowledge was power, as his father liked to repeat, and he found that he enjoyed being in that particular position of power. Even though he had no ambitions whatsoever to follow the path of his father’s to actual politics.

Wesley called it him 'discovering his inner Holmes', and as funny as it sounded, it was, in a manner, very true. He was still far from actually _embracing_ his inner Holmes – and he hoped fervently that it wouldn’t happen for decades yet to come – but he had to admit that he’d grown comfortable with having access to almost unlimited knowledge… and not having to worry about money like he used to. Financial independence was liberating.

Still, Ianto tried his best to remain true to himself. He dreaded the day on which Rhiannon would visit him only to find a stranger in her baby brother’s stead. He didn’t want that to happen. Rhi, Johnny and the kids – the new baby, a little girl named Mica just being born three weeks ago – were still the only true family he had. The ones he felt an emotional bond to. He’d rather die than lose them… or give them up to become a posh git.

Ianto shook his head and forced his meandering attention back to the current event of importance. This was Wesley’s big day, and he owed his best friend and flatmate to pay him proper attention.

Especially as – knowing Wesley as he did – he probably would have to interfere if Wes started panicking. Or fainted. Or something equally embarrassing.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
They rode the lift to the uppermost level, having grown used to its speed well enough by now that Wesley’s stomach no longer tried to empty itself through his ears during the ride. He was barely green around the quills when they finally stepped out of the cabin, right into the shared office of Yvonne Hartmann’s staff; a room, now unusually crowded with people, most of whom Ianto barely knew and Wesley didn’t know at all.

The department heads were all there, of course, aside from Yvonne and Mr Howarth. Many of them wore white lab coats, therefore it was safe to assume that they were scientists, and all of them had name tags pinned to their clothes, but Wesley couldn’t be bothered to try reading them at the moment.

There was Yvonne’s entire staff, of course – at least _some_ familiar and friendly faces – and a pretty blonde in a smart business suit. Both Ianto and Wesley knew her: Jenny Smith, the junior partner of _Smith, Smith & Smith_, the daughter of the Holmeses’ chief layer, who ran the secondary office of her father’s law firm; the one located within the Tower. She was here to represent her father and senior partner, just as Tish Jones represented the Holmes family.

In the first moment Wesley was a bit intimidated by being the focus of the attention coming from such a crowd. In truth, he looked as if he could bolt any second, so Ianto squeezed his elbow encouragingly.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Wes,” he murmured. “And remember: they’re only ever humans, too, who walk on two legs and chew with teeth like everyone else.”

That had been the standard encouragement of the late Madelyn Jones, whenever her children got scared of someone. As silly as it sounded, it never failed its effect- Wesley, too, chuckled nervously and steeled himself to face whatever might be coming.

Fortunately for him, the introduction turned out fairly short and simply, Yvonne Hartmann being in her best ‘people person’ form. He got introduced to the department heads, whose name he promptly forgot (with the exception of Mr Howarth, of course, who reassured him that he’d have time enough to learn who was who), congratulated by Yvonne’s staff that he already knew, and then whisked into Yvonne’s private office, together with Mr Howarth, Tish Jones, Jenny Smith, Quilla and, of course, Ianto.

It was time to finalise his contract. _Then_ he could start his life as an independent adult. It was a lovely thought.

“The papers have all been prepared,” Quilla said, taking a manila folder out of her briefcase and handing it to Jenny Smith. _Smith, Smith & Smith_ also ran Torchwood’s personnel department, which was why they needed an office in the Tower.

Jenny opened the folder and read every single document very carefully. She checked the small print _and_ the signatures – twice – and then nodded in satisfaction.

“Everything seems to be in order,” she said.

“Of course,” Quilla replied with a frown. “Your father has already checked the contract for any possible mistakes.”

“Which is why I checked them again,” Jenny’s voice was high, almost child-like, but her blue eyes showed very mature concern and pain. “Dad is a good lawyer, one of the best, but he’s been a bit… distracted ever since Mum’s fallen ill.”

“Speaking of which, how’s Mrs Smith doing?” Mr Howarth asked.

Jenny shrugged. “She’s hospitalised. Fortunately, Mr Holmes allows us the use of the private rooms at _Bart’s_ , so either Martha or Owen can keep an eye on her. Katie visits her daily to support her, but… it won’t take much longer now, and for that we’re grateful. She’s suffering too much, despite being on a morphine drip all the time.”

So he hadn’t been completely off deducing John Smith, Ianto realised. Not a widower – not yet – but constantly worried about a terminally ill wife. Understandable that he’d lost so much weight so quickly… although he couldn’t have been particularly fat before.

And Ianto’s father had Mrs Smith put in the private rooms at _Bart’s_? The rooms kept free for any potentially ill family members? That had been really nice of him, Ianto found – a bit surprised, cos _nice_ wouldn’t be a term he’d associate with Mycroft Holmes automatically. His father must have hidden depths still waiting for him to discover.

In the meantime Yvonne, too, signed the documents and Jenny Smith stored them in her own briefcase, promising the Torchwood Director to send her digital copies of everything.

“Thank you, my dear,” Yvonne smiled pleasantly; then she turned to Mr Howarth. “Well, Rupert, the young man is all yours. Have you decided which subsection of the Archives assign him to?”

Rupert Howarth nodded. “The section of copyrighted inventions needs to be reorganised and digitalised. It has been shamefully neglected ever since Alex Hopkins left us. I think somebody with Wesley’s patient and meticulous nature would be best suited for that task. After that – we’ll see. There’s always more than enough to do.”

Yvonne agreed. “That’s a good idea. He can always contact Alex in Torchwood House if necessary, and this would be a good introduction to the general working of the Archives,” she turned back to Wesley, her smile growing even wider. “Welcome to Torchwood, Wesley. I hope you’ll fit into our family well.”

~The End~


End file.
